Winds of Change
by Sings-off-key
Summary: A disastrous war, a repressive peace, a civil uprising, and now, dragons? Skyrim's need for a hero has never been greater. Many Nords yearn for greatness but none more than Thorald Gray-Mane, son of Skyrim's most famous smith. Will it take more than Skyforge steel to face the challenges ahead? And how will he appease the worst-tempered smith in all Skyrim? Thorald x Grelka
1. Prologue: Storm Touched

**Author's Note**: _What if? What if the Dragonborn is not some outland outlaw but a native son of Skyrim? The prologue starts fifteen years before the opening events of the game. I've been a big fan of the Elder Scroll series since Daggerfall, but this is the first time I've tried to set a tale in Tamriel. And this is the first fanfic I've written without a significant Original Character. For some reason, Tamriel feels wide open, like some wild frontier, more so than other realms I'm familiar with. Does that make sense? From a writerly viewpoint, I'm trying to decide if that's a good thing. Or not. Tell me what _you_ think. Dear, Kind Reader, if you feel the urge, shoot me a review. (See my big puppy eyes?) Feedback is meat and drink to us fanfic writers, you know. _

_Standard disclaimer: the Elder Scroll series belongs to Bethesda, not me. Alas. This story is presented for entertainment and not for profit._

**Prologue: Storm Touched**

The unexpected storm roared down from the mountains and slammed into Whiterun like a mace on a shield. Danica Pure-Spring, Kynareth's priestess, could feel the thunder vibrate through the temple floor as she paced. The day had been sunny and mild and now this. This wild, wild night. The acolytes whispered of Kynareth's wrath until, exasperated and more than a little on edge herself, Danica sent them to their beds.

Danica was too restless for sleep. Best to wait out this storm, she thought. The jarl's wife, not much more than a child herself, was pregnant and due any day now. Danica had been called out twice for false labor and she feared her healing skills would soon be put to the test. But when the temple door flew open, letting in a wind that rocked the hanging lamps and made crazy shadows skitter across the room, it was no messenger from the palace but a boy she knew well.

"Thorald, what brings you here?" she asked. "Has someone taken ill?"

He gave her a ten-year-old's gapped-tooth grin. The Gray-Mane clan lived a short street away from the temple but the boy was soaked to the skin. His long hair lay flat against his head in dripping streamers. He had skinned knees (as usual) and the beginning of what she guessed would be a spectacular black eye.

"Olfina burned her arm in the cook fire," he said. "It ain't much but the way she's wailing, you'd think she was dying. Little milk-drinker," he said, in the tolerant tone of an older brother. He gave her another grin. "Ma gave me a septim for Kyne and asked could you give us a jar of your salve."

"We call the goddess Kynareth," she corrected.

"We Gray-Manes say Kyne," Thorald said. "Uncle Vignar says Kynareth is the name foisted on us Nords by Imperial lick-spittles." The boy spoke carefully; this was obviously a direct quote. He already had the memory of a bard, Danica thought. "We Gray-Manes stick with the old ways and the old names." He gave her a sideways look to see if she was angry. It was hard to get angry with Thorald and harder to stay angry; the boy exuded charm. And of course, she had heard all this before. From her own ma and da, in fact. There were many old traditional Nord families in Whiterun but few older or more traditional than the Gray-Mane clan.

"So what's a lick-spittle?" he asked, apparently reassured by the eye-roll she cast him. She laughed and his dimple emerged.

"I have no idea," she said. "Ask your uncle."

"Doesn't sound very nice."

Danica doubted his uncle had anything very nice to say about any Imperial, not since the Great War had limped to its disastrous end. She made a silent prayer that this uneasy peace, bought so dearly, would last. She gave him the salve and walked him to the covered porch. Rain cascaded down the roof in heavy sheets.

"Stay a bit until this slackens," she said. They stood together and watched the sacred tree, the Gildergreen, rock in the wind. A gust sent a shower of wet petals at them like a cold slap. Thorald had long been a favorite of hers. He had a marvelous singing voice for a child so young. His uncle was one of the Companions so Thorald was no stranger to the warriors' mead hall, Jorrvaskr. When the Companions sang, it rang out over the city and Thorald's voice soared high and clear above them all. It was a gift of Kynareth, surely, but one neither he nor any in his family seemed to feel had any importance.

"What happened to your eye?"

He raised a hand to his face. "Oh, that. Grelka punched me."

"Oh, dear. Who's Grelka, do I know her?"

"She's visiting her Aunt Lillith."

"The stable master?"

"Aye. Grelka lives on a farm near Riverwood but her da just remarried and is off on his wedding trip. So she's staying here for now. With her aunt."

"She'll have a new mother. That must be nice for her."

He snorted. "She's mad as fire. Says that's not her ma and she's not going to live with her. Says she's going to stay here. In Whiterun." He made a face.

"Oh dear. She may be a bit upset by the change but she'll get over it."

"Grelka doesn't get over things. She just gets madder. She said she's going to be da's apprentice and work the Skyforge. I told her only Gray-Manes work the Skyforge and she ain't a Gray-Mane. That's when she popped me one. Said she'd do it anyway."

"Are you planning to be a smith like your father?" Everyone said Eorlund Gray-Mane was the greatest smith in Skyrim. Danica was no judge of arms and armor but she had seen his jewelry and it was exquisite.

"I'm going to be a great warrior like my Uncle Vignar," he said. "But it's good when warriors know about steel. I made this, da showed me how." He pulled a dagger from his belt sheath. "See? Good Skyforge steel. It's real sharp too. I can shave with it. When I grow a beard."

Lightning struck, closer than ever. The steel flashed in the glaring white light.

"Put that away!" Thorald gave her a startled look. "You should never wave bare metal around during a thunderstorm," she said, uneasily aware that her voice was shrill.

"Uncle Vignar says the lightning hits the highest thing around," he said. "So it should hit Dragonsreach, not us."

"Lightning doesn't follow rules."

"Uncle Vignar saw a cow hit by lightning once. Out in an open field. He said it was cooked from the inside out." Ghoulishly, he added, "Smoke came out of its hooves!"

Danica gave the shudder he clearly intended.

"I better get home," he said. "Thanks for the salve." He ran down the stairs but stopped under the Gildergreen and looked up. "Thank you, Kyne!" he shouted to the sky.

Static lifted her hair. That was the only warning she got. The crash and the light struck at the same moment, leaving Danica deaf and blind. She screamed, she couldn't help it. There was a sharp smell she couldn't identify and a tingle in her feet.

The tree! Lightning hit the Gildergreen! The goddess of wind and storms had struck her own sacred tree. What could it mean? Her heart pounded. Another flash and she froze in horror. Thorald lay still on the ground.

"Kynareth, no!" He lay in a puddle, covered with battered pink blossoms blown off the tree. Fear gave her the strength to scoop him up and carry him inside the temple. He was limp and lifeless in her arms. But when she laid him on a table near the altar, he took a great shuddering breath. And then another. His bruised eye was a deep purple against his pale face.

"Thorald," she called. "Can you hear me?" She patted his cheek then felt for the pulse in his neck. She had to brush aside the petals that clung to him. His heart beat strong and steady. His lips moved.

"Kyne," he whispered. "Thank you, Kyne."

"Thorald?"

He opened his eyes. His eyes weren't blue but a stormy gray. And his pupils! They were vertical slits like a cat-or a serpent!

Danica recoiled at this blank alien stare. His eyes closed. The priestess whirled at the soft footsteps behind her. It was Ahlam, her youngest acolyte. She was in her nightdress. She rubbed sleepy eyes.

"Has the baby come?" she asked. Then she blinked as she saw the boy. "Is that Thorald?"

"He was very close to the Gildergreen when lightning struck," Danica said. "Come look at his eyes, tell me what you see."

"Lightning struck the Gildergreen? Oh, no!" Her eyes opened wide but then she turned her attention to the boy. "Did he hit his head?" Ahlam asked. She gently peeled back one eyelid and then the other, especially careful with his bruised eye. She was young but had good instincts. She will make a fine healer, Danica thought. "His eyes seem normal to me."

"Normal." Danica took another look. The girl was right. They were normal. Thank Kynareth. Her mind must be playing tricks and no wonder, the fright she had. "Grab your cloak. Run to the Gray-Mane house and tell his parents there has been an accident."

* * *

As the days passed, the Gildergreen dropped all its flowers. Then all its leaves. Finally it stood in the town square, a scorched and pathetic skeleton. Pilgrims, who had always been drawn to see and touch Kynareth's sacred tree, now came in even greater numbers as word of this disaster spread across Skyrim. They camped in the square, to the annoyance of the jarl's guards. Ahlam made a sarcastic suggestion that the temple place a collection box under the tree. Some visitors pressed dead leaves in books as souvenirs. Later, bolder pilgrims broke off bits of the Gildergreen's distinctive bark. Even bolder pilgrims used a blade. The poor tree now looked like it had been attacked by starving deer. Danica hoped Kynareth marked these impious souls for retribution. And of course, she had heard endless speculation on what had caused Kynareth's wrath and how it could be averted.

Thorald and his father, on the way up to the Skyforge, joined her for a moment. Thorald had shown no ill effect from the lightning but he remembered nothing of what happened. Danica had come to the conclusion that he had simply fainted.

"The tree looks terrible," Thorald said frankly.

"It breaks my heart," she said. "But maybe next spring it will recover."

"Looks dead to me," Eorlund said. Danica, who always noticed voices, thought his was particularly resonant and pleasing. Perhaps Thorald's talent comes from his father, she thought.

"Trees like this don't really die. They slumber." Eorlund raised a skeptical brow but let her continue. "This tree was started from a cutting of the Eldergleam, which is said to be the oldest living thing in Skyrim. Maybe all Tamriel."

"If it's sleeping, how do we wake it?" Thorald asked.

"I don't know. Perhaps Kynareth will guide me."

"We should go to the Eldergleam. That's the ma, right? Ask her to wake up the Gildergreen. Where is it? Is it far?"

"It's in a sanctuary, not too far."

"We should go. Can we go, da?" He gave Eorlund a look that would have melted stone. The smith gave his son a small smile.

"Maybe. It's a fine tree."

"You've seen the Eldergleam?"

"Aye." He gave the Gildergreen another long look. "But this one's not sleeping. It's dead." His eyes met Danica's. "We should burn it on the Skyforge, in a pyre, as we burned the heroes of old."

The idea of a pilgrimage grew in Danica's mind. And such was the concern in the city over the tree's fate that it took very little effort to make the trip a reality. Lillith Maiden-Loom loaned her a wagon and a stable hand to drive it, so that any who grew tired could ride for a bit. Knowing there would be children in the group, the jarl sent a few guards for security. Bandits seemed bolder each year. And his cook prepared a picnic feast, now carefully packed into the back of the wagon.

A soft breeze ruffled the distant trees and the shrubs that lined the road. Kynareth smiles on this day, Danica thought. The priestess pushed back her hood. The impromptu pilgrimage had started out well enough. The weather was fine and they made good time on the road. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves and with any luck, they'd reach the Eldergleam Sanctuary by lunchtime. She hoped there was enough food for the group had grown beyond her expectations.

The Harbinger of the Companions, the great warrior Kodlak Whitemane had joined the group, as well as several of the younger Companions in their trademark armor. Brigands would have to be foolish as well as bold to attack this cheerful group. Two of the children, Thorald and Lillith's niece, Grelka, strode beside Kodlak ahead of the wagon. While she watched, Grelka gave Thorald a shove that sent him sprawling into the dirt. He bounced back up and made her a courtly bow. Grelka scowled and Kodlak chuckled.

Danica gave a sideways look to Eorlund Gray-Mane, walking beside her. She'd been hoping to speak to him but he'd said hardly two words the whole trip.

"Those two don't get along too well, do they?" she asked.

"Puppy tussles," he said. "They'll grow out of it."

They walked on in silence. Kodlak began to sing. The other Companions joined in immediately and after a moment, Thorald's exquisite voice rose in counterpoint. The priestess shivered in pure pleasure.

"He has a talent," she said.

"Aye, the boy always was loud."

"No, truly, his voice is a gift."

"Any Nord can sing."

"Not like that." They listened as they walked. "It is a gift from Kynareth." She gave him another sideways look. "Kyne, as you say." He blinked at her. "Have you ever thought he might have a calling? For the priesthood?"

He stared. His eyes were more gray than blue and for a startled second, she remembered the flash of serpent eyes she had imagined the night the Gildergreen was struck.

"I have wondered if perhaps Thorald might be called by Kynareth. The way he sings and his perfect pitch, it could be a sign."

"Never been nothing like that in the clan," he said repressively.

"Ah."

"Mostly we get called by the steel," he finally said. "Gray-Manes serve the Skyforge. Always have. We make blades or we use them. Thorald wants to be a warrior, like my brother."

"A warrior." After the horrors of the Great War, where the lives of an entire generation of young men and women had been torched like kindling, why anyone would want to be a warrior was a mystery to Danica. Yet here in Skyrim, it seemed everyone aspired to fight.

Death leads to more death. This couldn't be Kynareth's will.

"All puppies want to be wolves," Eorlund said. "It will pass."

"You think he'll be a smith?"

"He'll come to it. That girl Grelka has more talent in her finger than he has in his whole body. Ten years old and she already has a feel for the steel. But he'll come to it. He's a Gray-Mane. It's in his blood."

Danica could think of many examples where a son didn't follow in his father's footsteps. By his sour expression, Eorlund had one or two in mind himself. So she let the subject drop.

Perhaps his wife, Fralia, would be more receptive.

They arrived at the sanctuary in good time and good spirits. They couldn't have asked for better weather. The sanctuary was built in a huge ring of rock, like a hollowed out hill. One entered through a cleft in the ring. Outside, there were many hot springs in the area and the land reeked of sulfur. But inside, there was a sweet rain-washed scent like the youth of the world. Danica had been here many times but the feeling of awe was always fresh. The long shadowed entry opened into sunlight and there one saw the massive tree. It rose to the sky, with thick branches a vast distance overhead and petals a luscious pink haze amongst the leaves. Over the centuries, massive roots had grown to block the way to the tree. But one did not have to touch the tree to feel its power. Under the Eldergleam's huge vibrant canopy, Danica could feel the watchfulness of the goddess.

A grubby hand touched hers. It was Thorald and the awe on his face was all she could have hoped for. He feels Her. She knew it.

"This is the Gildergreen's ma," he whispered. "She can awaken our tree. I know it."

"I believe so, child. But I don't know how to do so."

"I have an idea."

At this point the driver, laden down with the first of the food hampers, asked where the picnic should be set up and she spent a harried few moments getting the meal organized. Nothing could spoil an outing quicker than poorly prepared or, gods forbid, insufficient food for hearty Nord appetites. She was ready to call the group to gather when she heard Grelka's sharp voice.

"What is that idiot doing?" The girl pointed. All eyes swiveled to the Eldergleam. A tiny figure crawled straight up the massive trunk, arms spread out like a spider working its way up a wall. When she realized it was Thorald, she thought her heart would stop. I'm going to faint, she thought, I'm really going to faint.

"He must be finding handholds in the bark," Kodlak said calmly. "It looks a good fifty feet to the first branch. He has quite a climb before him."

"How, HOW did he get up there?" a Companion asked, a young man with shadowed eyes. Danica hadn't caught his name. "There is no path!"

"I don't know," Kodlak said. "He climbs like a cat."

"I'll get that kitty down," Grelka said darkly. From her back pocket she pulled out a sling. From her front pocket she pulled out a smooth river stone. She gave the sling a whirl. Kodlak, alarmed, grabbed her wrist before she could loose her stone.

"No, Grelka," he said. "That will not help."

"There's nothing else I can do," she whispered.

"Sometimes all we can do is wait and watch," Kodlak said.

"I don't like it!"

"No."

"She couldn't hit him from this distance, surely," Danica said.

"Of course I could," Grelka said.

"She probably could. Get a bit stronger," Kodlak told her. "I'm eager to see you with a bow."

Danica looked at Eorlund. He had said not a word. His face was almost expressionless but with a set rigidity that suggested repression.

One of the jarl's men decided to clamber over the nearest huge root. "Strange," he said. "It's slippery. I can't get over it." He pulled out his war axe. "Gonna hack me some foot holds."

Danica ran to his side. "You mustn't cut the tree," she said. "It is sacred. No normal blade can cut it."

"Jarl will have my head if I don't try to help that boy. I know this tree is sacred and all but a couple of little cuts won't hurt it." He made a short powerful chop. His blade bounced off. He tried again.

His blade shattered. He stared.

"Eorlund, what's this?" he called out. "How can wood be stronger than steel? This just ain't right."

The master smith looked at the broken blade. He rubbed his hands over the unmarred surface of the root.

"If you give me a boost, I think I can get over it," the guard said.

"I don't think so," Eorlund said. "There is another root and another." He turned to Danica. "How did my son get past this barrier?"

"I don't know. I think—I wonder—"

"It was Kyne. Wasn't it?"

"I think so, yes. The goddess's hand must be in this."

He was silent a long moment.

"Then we will hope she does not let him fall."

Several times Thorald missed a hold or his hand slipped. Finally he made it to the lowest branch, big around as three mead barrels. He inched his way up it and then was on top.

"Good job, boy," Kodlak said in a low voice. "That's right, catch your breath." Thorald lay stretched out on the wide branch a long moment. Then he stood up. He began to walk along the branch.

"What are you doing?" Kodlak muttered. Thorald's foot slipped and he went down on one knee. The slope of the branch made a steady rise and the boy started crawling. "That's right, that's better," Kodlak said. He looked over at Eorlund. "When that boy gets down in one piece, I'm going to give him a thrashing he won't soon forget. Hope that's okay with you."

Eorlund just grunted. Danica looked around at the others. Grelka's pale face was the color of plaster. Her freckles seemed to float above her skin.

"Child, do you need to sit down?" she whispered. Grelka turned toward her and Danica was surprised to see tears standing in her eyes. Up to that moment, she had considered her a rather hard-hearted little brute.

"I'm going to beat him bloody for this," the girl whispered. Her lower lip trembled and she bit it firmly. "I'm—I'm going to get something to eat." She stomped over to the picnic and reached into the nearest hamper. She sat on the grass with a sandwich grabbed at random and began to chew with determination. But her eyes never left the climbing figure.

The branch narrowed and Thorald crawled ever outward. The branch began to sway under his weight and still he moved. He inched up one of the side branches like a caterpillar and disappeared behind the leaves. Further and further he went and they stared up, catching a flash of him between the foliage.

"That branch will break under his weight," Kodlak said.

"I don't think—" Danica began and then she caught her breath. A flash of light glittered off the dagger in the boy's outstretched hand. "Oh, no. Thorald, no!" She meant to shout but her words came in a whisper. "He's going to try to take a cutting."

Amplified like on a stage, they clearly heard the snap when Skyforge steel met the Eldergleam's enchanted bark. Thorald's voice rang out in what began as a heartbroken wail and which transmuted into words.

"Kyne, please! Let me help!" His voice held all the sorrow and desperation of youth and it rang against the rock walls that surrounded the sanctuary. The world is sound, Danica thought madly, it's that one clear sound going on forever and ever. A wind swirled around them, an impossible wind in this protected spot. It was a warm wind but persistent. It whipped Danica's robes around her ankles, lifted a litter of dead leaves and dust and brought down a shower of petals from the branches so high above them.

"Kynareth!" Danica breathed. "The goddess is here with us this very moment!"

The wind continued, almost gentle but relentless. Thorald was silent but the wind filled their ears. And then, with a groan like an assault, the Eldergleam's giant branch slowly bent, down, down to the ground.

"Talos preserve us," Kodlak whispered.

"Not Talos, my friend," Eorlund said. "Kyne."

Thorald stepped out from the leaves. There were pink petals in his hair. And in his hands—a branch. He ran to Danica.

"Look!" he said. He held out the slender branch. As they all watched, amazed and shocked, roots began to form until they were a tangled mass. "Da, my knife broke! I couldn't cut this but it came off in my hand!" With a last swirl of leaves and petals, the wind died down and the huge branch, with another great groan, began to lift up to its original position.

And later, after the excitement died down, after the yelling was done (the promised beating postponed) and the food was eaten, the sapling was carefully wrapped in damp cloth and loaded on the wagon. The children slept in the back, Grelka and Thorald curled up like exhausted puppies. Danica matched her stride to Eorlund's.

"That was Kynareth's wind," she said. She almost bounced with joy. She had often felt Kynareth in her heart, but to have Her manifest Herself here, so plainly-it was a true miracle. "You cannot deny it, that boy has been touched by the goddess."

"Aye." They walked on. "Winds of change. They don't bode well, do they?"

"What do you mean?" She was startled by his grim face on what could well be the happiest day of her life.

"When the gods get involved, it's not because good times are coming."

"I hadn't thought like that. I thought—this brought us hope. Kynareth is looking after us."

"Don't need hope when times are good. We lost the Great War. That's bad. But I reckon there's worse coming."

"Worse? Like what?"

"We'll know, when the time comes."

"Now you're scaring me."

"Hrm." He gave her a long look. "Bad times call for steel. Steel in the hand. Steel in the soul." He glanced back at the youngsters in the wagon with measuring eyes. "Going to be a busy time for smiths, I'm thinking. And whatever happens, I reckon my son is going to be right in the middle of it."


	2. Wedding Plans

_Author's Note: I've taken minor liberties with the canon timeline._

**2: Wedding Plans**

Danica stepped out of the temple. A warm breeze caressed her face, like a greeting from the Sky Goddess herself. She stretched her back and yawned. She was weary from a difficult healing. One of the outlying farmers, stubborn man that he was, had waited until his axe wound festered before he allowed his family to bundle him on a wagon for Whiterun. Stubborn, stubborn Nord. That she had been able to save the foot at all was a miracle of Kynareth's mercy. And perhaps a small tribute to her own stubborn Nord nature.

She stretched again and allowed her eyes to feast upon yet another of Kynareth's miracles, the young Gildergreen. It had been fifteen years since lightning killed the massive old Gildergreen. The sapling they'd planted in its place had grown amazingly. And the agent of that miracle-a young boy who was now a young man-approached her now. Thorald smiled when he saw her and she waved him over. Before he could reach her, he was accosted by one of the jarl's guards.

"Hail, Thorald," the guard said. "Still got that beard?"

"What kind of question is that, flat foot?" Thorald asked. "Of course I do. I'm a Nord, ain't I?"

"Oh, aye, but you can't really call that a beard now, can you? I hear your bride is up at the Skyforge, putting an edge on your razor as we speak."

Danica saw him stroke his beard-his rather straggly, weedy beard-with uneasy possessiveness.

"You heard wrong," Thorald said.

"Ha. We'll see."

"Aren't you supposed to be on patrol? Surely there's a crime going on somewhere."

"That beard of yours is a crime," the guard said. "You look like a mangy goat. Go on and shave it off. I've got ten septims riding on it."

"A bet? On my beard? Seriously?"

"Oh, aye. Old Hulda at the Bannered Mare is keeping book if you want to bet on yourself. Smart money's on Grelka." He grinned and sauntered off. Thorald gave his back a humorous scowl and put his hand to his beard again.

"Tell me true, Danica, my beard's not so bad. Is it?"

Thorald Gray-Mane was a handsome young man but the beard-the beard was unfortunate. "It has, ah, improved quite a bit over the last year," she said.

"It has, hasn't it?" He brightened. "If I shave it off, my face will get cold this winter. Grelka said she'd buy me a scarf." He shook his head. "But I'm not shaving and that's final. I'd look like a milk-drinker."

"Are you ready for your big day?" Danica asked. "The priest of Mara's carriage will arrive sometime this afternoon, I'm told."

"So my ma told me. About eight times. As if I'm likely to forget my own wedding. And poor Grelka has been driven mad by some fuss over her dress. I told her if we had eloped to Riften like I suggested, all the nonsense would be over and we could get on with our lives. She punched me." He rubbed his arm and grinned. "Reminded me of when she was a kid and used to beat on me all the time."

"You two certainly scrapped. How many times did you slink into the temple with a bloody nose to get it healed before your ma found out?"

"I had to or there'd be no peace in our house." He grinned again and launched into a falsetto imitation of Fralia Gray-Mane. "Eorlund, you go talk to that wild apprentice of yours. And don't just talk. Give that wicked girl a whipping. Look what she did to my precious son, she attacked him like a mad skeever." His mimicry was tone-perfect, he'd even caught his mother's inflection. Thorald could imitate just about anything and he had a wonderful singing voice as well. Perfect pitch was said to be a gift of Kynareth. One of the many ways the goddess had marked this remarkable young man, Danica thought.

"Poor Grelka. She was mad all the time. Da said it was the steel in her blood," he said. "Her step-ma's here for the wedding and Grelka's all riled up about that. I told her she could be nice to That Woman for one day. She's up at the Skyforge now. Hammering out her frustrations."

Danica had been vaguely aware of the sound of the forge. "I thought that was your father at work."

"No, ma said he had to entertain Grelka's da today. And you know how he feels about idle chitchat. And they have absolutely nothing in common. The two of them are no doubt sitting in the Bannered Mare, staring at each other. In dead silence. And drinking. I figure they'll both be dead drunk by noon. I almost envy them." He looked up over the Gildergreen. "Look at that cloud. Doesn't it look like a dragon? Poised to swoop down on Whiterun?"

"Maybe a hawk," Danica said hopefully. Sister Hawk was a name the ancient Nords sometimes called Kynareth. She felt a strange chill as the cloud passed over the sun. It did look like a dragon. Thank all the gods the dragons were gone forever. "I'm afraid a storm is coming. I warned your mother that the weather did not look at all auspicious for an outdoor wedding."

"She has her heart set on having the joining at the Skyforge."

"So she said. She and Eorlund were married there, after all."

"I don't see the point of making a tradition out of it." And he mimicked his mother again. "Danica, dear, could you have a wee word with our dearest goddess Kyne, oh, I meant Kynareth, of course. And see to it that tomorrow afternoon is fair?"

Danica laughed. "You must have been eavesdropping! She also reminded me that you had saved the Gildergreen and were favored by Kyne and that should count for something." Thorald rolled his eyes. "As if I needed a reminder. I think of you every time I see the tree. Look how it's grown. It's as tall as the temple and I believe it's going to bloom this year. The pilgrims will be thrilled."

"I wish you had never put the thought in her mind that I was favored by Kyne. She trots it out at the most embarrassing times. My brother and sister used to mock me with it." He imitated a young Avulstein. "'Oh, Blessed One, Favored of Kyne, would you deign to pass the butter?'"

"I didn't have to put the idea in her head. Everyone on the pilgrimage saw you climb the Eldergleam when none of the rest of us could even approach it."

Thorald gave the tree's trunk a fond pat. "You're doing great, youngster. You keep growing." The old stricken tree had been cut down and its wood respectfully stacked and stored at the Skyforge. Over the years, it had been burned for special projects. It was an open secret that Grelka had used the last of the sacred wood this week to forge his wedding gift. He decided it might pain Danica to hear this. "If it rains we can have the wedding at Jorrvaskr. That was Uncle Vignar's idea from the get-go but ma thought the wedding party might get too rowdy if we held it in the Companions' mead hall. 'All those rough warriors, dear," Thorald said, mimicking his mother's whisper. "'And some of them are _not Nord_! There's even a _Dunmer_ in the Companions. We'd have to invite him to the reception.' As if I hadn't known Athis for years but she sees an elf and has a fit. I say the sooner everyone gets drunk, the better." He glanced up at the sky. "So don't listen to my ma, Kyne. Let it rain!"

"I've never heard of a wedding performed at Jorrvaskr. The jarl is always willing to open up the Great Hall for weddings but Fralia didn't seem to like that idea."

"Uncle Vignar doesn't care to be beholden to Jarl Balgruuf for anything," he said curtly. Danica grimaced. This stupid, stupid civil war. The longer it went on, the more division it caused. The jarl had done his best to keep Whiterun Hold neutral and not choose sides but moderation did not appease the city's two oldest families. The Battle-Borns, staunch defenders of the Empire, felt the jarl withheld his proper support for the Emperor in Cyrodiil. The Gray-Manes were angry that he didn't join Ulfric's rebellion, like any true Nord (they said) was honor-bound to do. Danica considered herself a true Nord and she hated this war. She didn't care for politics but she could see that fertile and prosperous Whiterun Hold, located in the very heart of Skyrim, would not be allowed to remain neutral forever. Was it wise to postpone the moment of decision? She honestly did not know.

"Besides," Thorald continued, "Our family has strong ties to Jorrvaskr and the Companions. I'm a Companion as is my uncle," Thorald said. "My da has always made their arms and armor and now Grelka helps with that as well. Many of our close friends are Companions. I'd rather have the wedding at the mead hall than up at the forge, to be frank. It might squelch the talk that-never mind."

He didn't need to go on. Like half the town, Danica was perfectly aware of the gossip that said Grelka was more deeply attached to the Skyforge than to Thorald himself. Gray-Manes had always worked the Skyforge and marriage would make the ambitious young smith a Gray-Mane. The rumor was that she and the clan patriarch, Vignar, had negotiated this marriage, and they had flipped a coin to decide which of the sons would be the lucky groom. She herself didn't know the girl well enough to know if there was any truth to this tale. Perhaps it was indeed one of those practical arranged Nord marriages or perhaps it was the love match it seemed. Thorald, at least, appeared cheerful about his fate.

And the gossip was approving more than malicious. Thorald was a popular man. And Grelka was pretty, talented, strong, and above all, Nord to the bone. The girl's mother had come from Whiterun and her aunt still ran the stables. Grelka's ma had been just as hot tempered as her daughter, the old-timers said. Against her husband's will, she'd marched to Markarth with Ulfric Stormcloak's militia. She had been killed there by Forsworn, a proper Nord heroine, people said.

Danica wondered how her orphaned daughter had felt about that. But the town had great expectations of the young couple.

"I met your future mother-in-law with Fralia yesterday," Danica ventured. "She seemed...nice."

"She is...nice," Thorald said, copying her hesitation. "Try convincing Grelka."

"She was somewhat younger than I expected. I gather she had been one of her da's stable hands before the marriage."

"Aye." Grelka's father raised race horses-very famous racehorses-on a farm outside of Riverwood. "I don't think that's why Grelka took against her though. The marriage was too soon after her ma's death and she was just a kid, you know. She got it in her mind that her step-ma entrapped her da. Who knows, maybe she's right. Not to speak poorly of my future father-in-law but his judgment isn't always the best. I told Grelka she was lucky her step-ma was a Nord. What if she had been Imperial? Or, Kyne forbid, an elf?" He laughed.

"She took no comfort in that, I gather."

"She did not," Thorald said. "If she'd been an Imperial, everyone would understand why she hated her, she said. And she blames her step-ma for this scheme her da has to move to Bruma. Her step-ma has family in Bruma."

"There are many Nords in Bruma," Danica said.

"Aye. I'm sure it's a fine place, for a city in Cyrodiil. But to leave Skyrim at a time like this? He's afraid of bandits and he says the Stormcloaks have been eyeing his horses. But to take his herd to Cyrodiil and think they will be safer there, that's madness. Jarl Ulfric would never steal from a Nord."

Danica wasn't so sure. This civil war didn't just target Imperials. There were plenty of Nords in the Empire's army. She had healed the wounded herself and seen the bodies in the Hall of the Dead. But no Gray-Mane would hear the slightest disparagement of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the glorious rebellion. She suppressed a sigh.

"But I do agree there is more lawlessness than there was," Thorald said. "Bandits are a veritable plague. We found a whole nest of them east of the city just last week, all hunkered down with their loot. Kodlak sent us to clear them out. They fought to the last man, the fools. Deserters from the Imperial army, no doubt."

Danica hadn't realized the hammering from the Skyforge had stopped until it started again. Thorald also turned his face towards the forge. He scowled.

"What is _he_ doing there?" Thorald hissed. Danica saw that he was glaring at the distant figure of Jon Battle-born descending the long stairs from the Skyforge. Such a shame, this feud between Whiterun's two oldest families. Thorald and Jon had been boyhood friends and no doubt would have been friends for life, were it not for this terrible, terrible war.

"And what does he have to smirk about?" he added. From this distance she could read no expression on the bard's normally gloomy young face. But she was willing to admit that her eyesight was no longer what it once was.

"A commission, perhaps?" Danica suggested.

"No! No Battle-born will ever get his hands on Skyforge steel!" Thorald fumed. "I ought to-" He scowled. "Did you know that his father insulted my ma in the market last night? While none of us was there to stand up for her, the coward. Uncle Vignar was furious when he heard. But da said ignore him. Said Olfrid's getting childish in his old age. Too much rich, soft living has rotted his brain."

"Your da's a wise man."

"Yeah, well, he's got the forge to keep him calm. Me, I'd rather pound faces than pound steel. I'm going to check on Grelka. If that Battle-Born has been bothering her, Kyne help him."


	3. Awkward Gifts

_Author's Note: This chapter's giving me fits so I decided to chop it in two. This story has action, I promise! But I keep getting diverted by dialog...I like dialog. These people won't stop talking! Comments are welcome, of course._

**3: Awkward Gifts**

Thorald ran up the steps to the Skyforge, set high above the city. The jarl's palace perched higher yet, and loomed over Whiterun like a stern sentinel. From the Skyforge he could look down on the roof of Jorrvaskr, the oldest building in Whiterun. As kids, he and Avulstein would lean over the crumbling wall and toss pebbles at the heads of the warriors in the practice yard. (This blithe pleasure ended the day Uncle Vignar trudged up the stairs, with his terrifying scowl. And his cane.) The mead hall had been built with the remnants of one of Ysgramor's ships, far, far from the sea. It lay as if it had been beached here by some unimaginably huge wave.

Thorald figured the original Companions had a strange sense of humor.

But the Skyforge predated the ancient mead hall. No one knew who had built it. When asked, his da just shrugged and grunted. Perhaps it had been a gift of the gods.

Grelka stood at the work bench, her pale brow furrowed as she worked on a set of scaled armor. That must be Avulstein's new armor, he thought, with a tinge of jealousy. His brother was going to Windhelm to enlist with the Stormcloaks right after the wedding. How he wished he was going with him, but of course, it wouldn't be right to leave his bride so soon.

Grelka hummed as she worked. Thorald was relieved to see she was in good spirits. Her step-ma's arrival in Whiterun had put her out of sorts and Grelka's temper was never exactly smooth or easy-going even without provocation. Particularly when she was working. His da told him once that her frustration would ease when she finally became one with the Skyforge.

Whatever that meant. His da could be unexpectedly poetic. Thorald thought it was simpler. Grelka, like many Nords, found anger homier and more comfortable than the grief that had been set upon them. Skyrim still reeled from the Great War. Defeat was unacceptable and yet defeat was undeniable. The war had ended before his birth-if you could call this anxious deadlock an end- and yet the pain was still fresh not just in his parents' generation but in his own. It shadowed everything.

They had lost. To elves. And the Thalmor, backed by Imperial troops, now roamed Skyrim freely and did what they could to rub Nords' noses in their shame.

"What was Jon doing up here?" he asked. She blinked at him and put her hand in the front pocket of her work apron.

"What?"

"Jon Battle-Born. I saw him coming down the stairs."

"Oh. He came to felicitate us on the wedding. And, I guess, to apologize for his da. Said he was drunk last night when he had that run in with your ma."

"Drunk. I guess a poor excuse is better than no excuse at all. That old fool couldn't apologize for himself?"

"Olfrid Battle-Born? Apologize? For anything? Maybe when there are three moons in the sky."

"So Jon apologized for him? Gah. We need neither his felicitations nor his apologies," Thorald said stiffly. Why was she so jumpy?

"Thorald. Really. We were all friends, you know. Let Vignar and Olfrid have their dagger looks and their spiteful words, if they must. Why should the rest of us get dragged into it? You and Jon were going to go to Solitude together, to the Bards College."

"We were boys then. Times have changed. Do you really see me striking a pose with a lute and reciting the Poetic Edda?"

"I don't care about the Bards College," she said. "I'm talking about Jon. You were friends all your life and now you're enemies? Can't you two just talk?"

"No, Grelka, we can't." She frowned. Maybe she hadn't realized that marrying into the clan meant taking sides. "Listen, sweetheart, this isn't just my choice. What do you think his own da would do if he caught Jon being friendly with a Gray-Mane? You think Uncle Vignar's fanatical? Olfrid Battle-Born makes him look like the soul of compromise."

"Yes, but-" And she sighed. "I finished the rings last night," she said. "Want to try them on?"

"Absolutely," he said. "Are they in your pocket?"

She slapped his hand away before he could explore. "No."

He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. She raised her face to be kissed. "Let's put them on and run far, far away."

"The offer to elope still stands?" she asked.

"Always. Is that a wistful note I hear?"

"I should have let you talk me into eloping weeks ago. Why didn't you?"

"I tried."

"Thorald! You didn't try very hard. You could convince a horker it could fly. You could convince a slaughterfish to take a stroll on dry land. Why didn't you persuade me to run off with you?"

"Because like all Gray-Mane men, I live in terror of my ma. She has her heart set on this wedding. Woman, how am I supposed to kiss you properly when your pockets bristle with tools?"

"Keep your hands out of my pockets."

The rings, stored for safety on a chain around Grelka's neck, fit perfectly.

"What are these made out of?" Thorald asked. They were simple bands but beautiful in their simplicity. "It almost looks like mammoth ivory but brighter and finer. Surely this isn't-did you actually do it?"

"Dragonbone," she said with something suspiciously close to a grin. "I actually did it."

"Truly? Tell me. You didn't snitch the bone for this off Numinex's skull, did you?"

"Like you tried to?" As children, they'd all been fascinated by the dragon skull mounted behind the throne in the jarl's palace. Back in the First era, the dragon Numinex had been captured by the hero Olaf One-Eye. She, Thorald, Avulstein, and Jon-the child gang that terrorized Whiterun in their day-had studied it endlessly. The boys honed their wooden play swords and planned how they'd slay a dragon. Grelka, already good with a sling and learning the bow, said it was obvious one must pump a dragon full of arrows.

"Remember when Irileth caught me perched on the back of the jarl's throne, trying to pry out a tooth?" he asked.

"I remember her yelling! Right before I ran away," she said. "With Jon and your brother pelting behind me, I might add."

"Some lookout you were, by the way."

"I was trying to keep the throne from tipping over."

"Unsucessfully."

"You were heavy! So what happened, after the big crash? You never said."

"Too ashamed."

"You're not going to keep secrets from me now, I hope."

"Nope. I hate secrets," he said. She gave him an uneasy look he couldn't quite decipher. "Irileth grabbed my ear and hauled me down to my Uncle Vignar at Jorrvaskr. Told him to give me a whipping."

"Did he?"

"Would he do anything an elf told him? He got haughty. Told her we were Gray-Manes and our family was the backbone of Whiterun. He said we owed no obedience to the jarl's foreign Dunmer housecarl. If the jarl was upset he could speak for himself. Told her that when you get down to it, the jarl was just a man and the throne was just a chair. Nothing to make a hysterical flap about."

"Hysterical. He called Irileth hysterical? To her face?"

"I prayed for Oblivion to swallow me up."

"And he survived?"

"No one has ever accused my uncle of cowardice. Nor of having common sense," he added. "I was utterly, horribly humiliated. Later she caught up with me."

"Did she give you a whipping?"

"She gave me a searing lecture on duty and respect that I remember to this day. Even now when she gives me the eye, I feel like I'm ten years old. I'd have rather had the whipping."

"Gods. Me too. Irileth in a snit is terrifying. Strangely enough, I had a dream about that dragon skull awhile back. And when I woke, it occurred to me that the rest of Numinex might be around somewhere."

"The rest of Numinex?"

"The bones and the scales. There's a book in the jarl's library about the old Akaviri dragon hunters. They used dragon bone and scales to make weapons and armor. Can you imagine?"

"Nope. How could you forge bone?"

"I don't know. Yet. I do know the Dunmer have some secret method of making armor out of bone. I asked Irileth about it but she's no smith. She doesn't know how bone armor is made. She's seen it though, back in Morrowind. Said it's impressive. Do you remember that armor I made out of chaurus chitin?"

Thorald grimaced. "I remember dismembering countless giant stinking bugs. I remember dragging a huge sack of bug parts out of that filthy Falmer cave. I definitely remember the smell. Gah. The things I do for love."

"You make a wonderful pack horse, darling," she said. She pecked his cheek and he caught a glimpse of dimple. Ha. He would get a smile out of her yet. She hadn't smiled since her da and step-ma came to Whiterun for the wedding.

"The chitin looked nice," she said. "All black and glossy. And it handles better than mudcrab chitin. Doesn't really stand up to a hammer blow though. Too brittle. But dragon scale! I'm itching to get my hands on some. So I asked the steward if the jarl had any more of Numinex's remains stored away. They would have been valuable back then, when dragons still roamed the earth. Now that dragons are gone-gosh! It took a few days but sure enough, we found some bits of bone hidden away in one of the lower storerooms. No scale, alas. I haven't given up hope, though. Proventus talked to the jarl and he gave me the bone as a wedding gift!"

"A bit of moldy old bone? Nice. I hope he wrapped it up with a ribbon."

"Dragon bone is tremendously rare and practically priceless!" Grelka said. "Did you know they stabled Numinex right out on the Great Porch? Proventus told me. I saw the anchor bolts for the chains. They still have the chains, you know. Seems like they never throw anything away, up at the palace. I wonder how long it took to forge." She spread her hands. "The links are this big. Can you imagine what it must have been like? A dragon! Here in Whiterun. But I can't figure out how they got him up there. From the edge of the porch, it's a straight drop-off down a cliff."

"He had to have flown in."

"He flew in and let himself be chained?" Grelka asked. "Why? Why didn't he just fly away?"

"No one knows anymore. They say Olaf One-Eye fought the beast for a day on top of Mount Anthor and when he couldn't defeat him by arms, he Shouted him into submission."

"Shouted?"

"Olaf had the Voice. He and the dragon Shouted at each other another day and finally the dragon surrendered."

"And he flew to Whiterun at Olaf's command?" She tried to picture it. "So dragons must have had some honor then. It's not like Olaf could have flown after him, if Numinex broke his word."

"I don't know," Thorald said. "But I do know they made Olaf One-Eye jarl of Whiterun for that deed. And later he was High King of all Skyrim. I guess people sit up and notice when you have a pet dragon."

"Eorlund said there were Gray-Manes in Whiterun even in Jarl Olaf's day. One of your ancestors made him a suit of armor. I wonder what it was like. Speaking of armor, I got a commission from one of the sell-swords in the Drunken Huntsman. Full set of leather and she wants it dyed red. To match her eyes. She's a Dunmer."

Thorald shook his head. "Red armor. Da would have a fit."

"I'm not so proud. Gold is gold. She paid half in advance. Now we have some housekeeping money!"

"Keep this up, woman, and you'll be the first Gray-Mane to make a profit since the First Era." She raised her brows at that. But it was true that the Gray-Manes never had two septims to rub together. Eorlund was, no doubt in her mind, the greatest smith in Skyrim. His work ought to be fetching a jarl's ransom. Yet he seemed content to make arms and armor for the Companions, who paid a stipend about sufficient to keep him in materials. If Fralia didn't barter arrowheads to the hunters and make a bit of coin from her little stand in the marketplace, Grelka didn't know how the Gray-Manes would even keep food on the table. Olfina worked nights at the inn so she could put aside some gold for her own and Avulstein mooched around town doing odd jobs for pocket change. Thorald's Companion pay was erratic, to put it mildly.

For that matter, the Companions ought to be knee-deep in gold. They were certainly busy enough. They lived well in their ancient mead hall but gold flowed through their collective fingers like water through a mill. Kodlak Whitemane, the Companions' Harbinger, put honor over gold. Like the Gray-Manes. This was all well and good, it was laudable in fact-no one wanted the Companions to raid tombs or shake down the common people they protected. But Thorald had been a Companion for several years, yet his pay was not really enough to set up a household and start a family.

Poverty was practically a family tradition. They all laughed about it. But Grelka couldn't understand why. The Battle-Borns were as old a family as the Gray-Manes and they were rich. Proud of it, too. Not that gold was everything. Honor was more important, of course. Of course. But having to scrimp and save for the rest of her life-she didn't want that. Not for herself and not for any children she might have.

She was a good smith. A _good_ one. In time she would be better. And one day she would be a famous smith. This she knew. The Skyforge generated fame. When that day came, she would charge what her work was worth. She would not give it away like Eorlund did.

But meanwhile, she would scrimp and save like the rest of her new clan. If a paying customer wanted her armor dyed red, by Talos, she'd make it as bright and beautiful as a ripe apple.

The Gray-Manes assumed she and Thorald would move into the clan home after their marriage. It was so crowded! Vignar and his manservant had already moved to Jorrvaskr to make room for them. She loved the Gray-Manes, she truly did. Eorlund was like the father she had wished for all her life (instead of the one the gods gave her). Thorald's sister Olfina was a good friend. But to eat every meal at Fralia's table, under her sharp-eyed scrutiny-no. A thousand times no!

She wanted her own home. She dropped a few hints but Thorald said there was no point in househunting when there was no gold for house buying.

But there was. There was her dowry.

From the time she was a very little girl, the last of her mother's wealth from her adventuring days had been set aside for her. Over six thousand septims, a handsome fortune, her father always said. When her mother died the gold was put in a chest to be given her on her wedding day. Her father _promised_.

That gold had always given her a quiet sense of confidence, knowing that she need never be dependent on anyone. When he came to Whiterun, her father blithely informed her the gold was gone. For not only had That Woman persuaded her da into this mad scheme to move to Bruma, she had taken her ma's gold to pay for it.

He was in a bind, he said. He couldn't find a buyer for the farm in Riverwood. Couldn't even find a tenant farmer to rent the place. Times are unsettled, he said airily, and it's not like you need the gold now that you're moving up in the world. House Gray-Mane, by Mara, you will want for nothing, girl.

Her da planned to walk away from the family farm and let it revert to the jarl. He'd bought a place near Bruma, sight unseen, all arranged by That Woman's kin. And although it might serve him right if they'd tricked him into buying barren wasteland unfit for raising skeevers, let alone racehorses, the point was that her dowry was gone.

And her da 'made it up to her'. He gave her Frost.

That Woman's idea, no doubt.

"But da!" she'd protested. "What am I to do with a racehorse? I can't afford his keep."

"Frost will make you a fortune," he'd said. "Even if you don't race him-"

"Race him? I don't know anything about horse racing."

"Your aunt can advise you."

"She's got the Whiterun stable to run. You think Aunt Lilith wants to go traipsing around the province with that crazy horse, at her age? Racing? As if there were any races to go to. There's a war on, da, if you haven't noticed."

"The war won't last forever," he said.

"Then why are you moving to Bruma?"

He ignored her. "Even if you don't race him, the stud fees alone make him your personal gold mine."

"No one's breeding racehorses, da. Not when there are no races. They're breeding warhorses."

"Nonsense," he said. "Frost is famous all over Skyrim, girl."

And that was true. Frost was famous for winning impossible races out of sheer stubbornness. He liked to win and no one could convince him he wasn't the fastest horse in Skyrim. On good days, he was. He was also famous for losing easy races if he decided it would be more fun to savage his jockey. He kicked like a mammoth, bit like a sabre cat and would maul any stable hand who displeased him. Her aunt, as outraged as Grelka over the loss of her dowry, had agreed to stable Frost. For now, she added ominously.

Thorald had been philosophical about it. Of course, it helped that Frost, who could be charming when he chose, had taken a liking to him. Yesterday, Frost had graciously accepted an apple from his hand and then allowed Thorald to scratch behind his ears.

"I should sell him," Grelka fumed. "Da says he's worth loads more than six thousand septims. But when I asked why _he_ didn't sell him, he mumbled and changed the subject. Because it's obvious that no one is buying racehorses in the middle of a war."

"You know you can't sell him," Thorald said. "He's a gift. And a noble one," he added. Frost rubbed his head against Thorald's chest and dribbled apple bits on his shirt. "He's a typical Gray-Mane asset, you know. A drain on our house, and can't in honor be sold or exploited." He gave Frost a friendly slap on the back. "Welcome to the clan, boy. You'll fit right in."

Frost whickered his agreement.


	4. Destiny Calls

_Author's Note: This chapter has deviated quite a bit from my first draft so it took awhile to hammer out. Hope you like it! If any of you are opera fans, I fantasize Thorald's voice as something like Jonas Kaufmann. If you want a treat, look him up on youtube in Il Trovatore ( Ah! si, ben mio). I adore those totally insane, absurd Verdi plots._

**4: Destiny Calls**

Grelka's hair was sensibly braided out of her face but the stiffening wind lifted the loose strands at her neck. "I think Danica was right about a storm coming," Thorald said. There was no shelter at the Skyforge, of course, although Dragonsreach loomed far overhead as a wind break. "Look at how fast those clouds are rolling in. How long are you working today?"

"I've almost finished Avulstein's armor," Grelka said. "Tell him to come see me before dinner."

"He'll be pleased." Her grunt reminded him of his da. "Why the long face? You know he's eager to join the Stormcloaks."

"I don't want him to go. I hate this war, Thorald."

"I face danger when I go after bandits or beasts and you don't object to that."

"It's not the same. In the Companions you make your own decisions about what risks to take and when to take them. In the army you have to follow orders. Even if they are stupid orders. Especially if they are stupid orders."

"I guess there's no point in asking you to join up with me."

Grelka stared at him. "Is that a joke?"

"They need smiths as well as fighters. The harder we strike, the sooner it will be over. And Skyrim will be free."

"Now you sound like your uncle."

"I do? Gods help me." Thorald shook his head. "He's writing a letter for Avulstein to take to Windhelm. Not that he really needs an introduction to the jarl. Ulfric has known us all forever. But Uncle Vignar says Avulstein's sure to be made an officer right away. How I envy him." He gave her a look through sandy eyelashes. "Maybe next season."

"Maybe next season what? Oh no. Don't even think about it."

"You know this is important, Grelka. Skyrim needs—"

"Skyrim needs an end to this war, not more fighting," she snapped.

"The jarls bicker like children and Torygg does nothing to stop them. He's too young to be High King."

"The Moot didn't think so."

"The Moot cares more about Imperial gold than about what is right and true."

"Is that a quote from Jarl Ulfric?"

"The jarl cares about Skyrim and her future."

"My ma quoted Jarl Ulfric too. Back when he was younger than King Torygg is now, I bet. And she followed Ulfric to Markarth. She never came back."

"I know, Grelka. I'm really sorry about your ma. She's in Sovngarde now."

"That makes me feel _so_ much better."

"I really am sorry."

"We didn't even get an urn. There were so many bodies, the mages burned them in a big pit. My da cried when he told me. Cried. And he had been so angry when she left. They had a big screaming fight."

She could still remember part of their argument.

_"Ulfric's a fool to try to take Markarth," her da said. "I've seen Markarth. The city is impregnable."_

_ "That's why he needs every strong arm," her ma said._

_ "He should stay in Windhelm. His people need him. He has no business in Markarth, chasing after glory."_

_ "Skyrim needs the silver from the Reach. The empire won't lift a finger to help. They will treat with those treacherous natives before they send troops to take back what's ours."_

_ "Ulfric should stay home and so should you. I forbid you to go."_

_ "You knew I was a warrior when you married me."_

_ "The Great War is over," her da said._

_ "I came back from that. I will come back from this." A pause. "Is this what you want our daughter to see, you wailing like a milkdrinker? I see you hiding there, Grelka. Come out and say goodbye."_

_ "I want our daughter to see a mother who will stay with her and protect her."_

_ Grelka knew not to tell her ma not to go. "I want to come with you," she said._

_ "You will have your own chance at glory one day, dear heart. Give me a kiss. I'll be back when we take back the Reach."_

But her ma didn't come back. Not her horse, not her gear, not even her ashes. A chest of gold was all Grelka had to remember her mother by and now even that was gone. And Thorald wanted to go too. She saw the same restlessness in him that she had seen in her mother, the weeks before she finally left. She'd been seeing it for awhile.

"You were joking about leaving next season," she said. "Weren't you?" She gave him an anxious look when he didn't answer her right away. "Your uncle said your place was with the Companions." He still didn't answer. "It's noble work."

"Not so noble anymore," he said. "The Companions have become little more than a band of mercenaries."

"Better not let Kodlak hear you say that."

"He'd be the first to agree." Grelka found his quiet tone ominous, without his usual animation. "Skjor has been pressing me to accept the beast-blood."

They were considering admitting him to the inner Circle then. This didn't surprise Grelka. He was a fine warrior. But the beast-blood!

"Will you?"

"No."

"Thank Mara!"

"I didn't know you felt so strongly about it," Thorald said. "But I'm glad. I feel the same way. I honor my Shield-siblings, you know that. But that way is not my way." He looked out over Jorrvaskr. He saw Tilma below, hurriedly clearing off the tables from lunch. "Kodlak regrets it, you know, taking the beast-blood," he said. "And da told me once to put my faith in Skyforge steel and not look for other ways to strengthen myself. I didn't know what he was talking about then. As a kid when I heard the whispers, I thought people were talking about the wolf _armor _some of the Companions wear."

"When I was little my aunt told me never to go outside the city walls when the moons were full," Grelka said. "But she never said why." Grelka knew they were alone up here but she looked around anyway to be sure, then lowered her voice. "Until Aela and I became friends, I had no idea they were werewolves."

"The beast-blood has no appeal to me," he said. "I've got enough people telling me what to do. Don't need the moons doing it too." He sounded bitter. I've been ignoring the restlessness, she thought. Should I ignore this, too? Probably. But she couldn't.

"We all have our duties, Thorald."

"Don't worry. I know my place. I've had it pounded into me often enough."

Grelka frowned. "Vignar just wants what's best for you."

"Uncle Vignar wants what's best for the clan. Or what he thinks is best. He apparently doesn't believe me capable of making my own decisions."

"Of course he does."

"Is that so? I didn't even get to propose for myself."

"You didn't need to. We had an understanding!"

"Oh, aye. But sitting at the dinner table one night, he gives us that look. 'Enough canoodling, you two, when are you getting married?' Meddling old man. Next thing I knew, he and ma had set a date."

Grelka felt her mouth go dry.

"I thought that was what you wanted."

"I did too."

"Have you changed your mind?" she whispered.

"No!" He grabbed her hands. "No," he said more quietly. "But—"

A burst of wind whipped up the hill, chased by an ominous rumble of thunder.

"But—" she prompted. "You say no but that sounds like yes to me. You _have_ changed your mind."

"I don't know how to say this without sounding foolish and selfish."

"Just say it."

"My life is all planned out for me. The Companions, marriage—ma's already talking about setting up the nursery, for Mara's sake. Before long, I won't just be sounding like my uncle, I'll _be_ my uncle. I spend my days training whelps and running errands for milkdrinkers with more gold than sense. And none of this _matters_." There was another low rumble. The sky was noticeably darker now.

" It doesn't matter that we're making a life? Together? That's what people do."

"This is not what I'm meant to be doing right now." He understood her confused look; he felt confused too. "I don't know how to explain it. But I think it's the war. It's not right for me to be sitting idle here. It feels like everything is going wrong in Skyrim these days. I need to do something."

"These are wedding jitters," Grelka said. "Everyone gets them."

"I've tried to tell myself that." There was yet another growl from the sky. "I know how you feel about this war but I just can't agree with you. And I don't think it's fair to you if I—"

"If you—what? Break your promise and go off to war?"

"I never promised that."

"Your uncle did."

"Maybe he did. But he shouldn't have made promises for me."

"Just like he shouldn't have proposed for you, I take it. The guests are here, the gifts are here, the priest is on his way and NOW you tell me you don't want to be married? What in Oblivion is wrong with you?"

"I wish I knew," he said quietly.

"Fine. Fine! Talos forbid I should stand between a man and his doom," Grelka said.

"Doom? Call it destiny." There was a spark of his normal humor in his eyes. "That sounds better."

Grelka set her formidable jaw in the look he knew well. And dreaded. A long low roll of thunder continued, growing louder and louder until, irritated, Thorald looked up at the sky. "Enough interruptions already!" he shouted.

Rain began to plop down in fat cold drops. And then, with a blinding flash and a roar that made the ground tremble, lightning struck one of Dragonsreach's chimneys high overhead. Grelka yelped and snatched her hand out of her pocket as if she'd been stung. The skies opened and rain flooded down.

Thorald helped her gather up the armor she was working on. Grelka felt like screaming—just like her da had screamed at her ma. Was this sudden storm a sign from the gods? A warning? If she got in the way of Thorald's destiny, would the lightning strike _her_ next? As they both ran for shelter at Jorrvaskr, Grelka yelled, "_You're_ going to be the one to tell your ma the wedding is off."

* * *

There was a gentle tap at the door, then it swung open before Grelka could answer it. Olfina, cloak streaming water, stepped in.

"You didn't have to come all the way down to the stables in this weather," Grelka said.

"Oh, yes, I did," she said. She hung her dripping cloak on the peg by the door. "I had to get away from my family. You'd think Sheogorath had struck them all mad."

Grelka winced. "What's in the bucket?" she asked.

"Hulda sent some bottles of mead with her condolences. Where's your aunt?"

"Gone to bed early with one of her headaches."

"We'll drink her share then." The bottles clinked merrily when Olfina set the bucket on the table. Grelka peeked at the labels.

"The good stuff," she commented. "You want a mug?"

"Straight from the bottle is good enough for me. We're going to drink and you're going to talk."

"Nothing to talk about."

"Oh, no you don't. I got a belly full of martyred silence from my brother. Tell me what happened."

Grelka sighed. "Thorald wants to join the Stormcloaks and I won't marry a soldier. That's the whole story. I'm sure there are better tales going around the Bannered Mare by now."

Olfina snorted. "The rumor mill is grinding away. Everyone stopped talking when I walked in there just now. So I'm sure it's juicy. The only tale anyone would say to my face was that you jilted him when he refused to shave off his beard. And I'm not sure anyone believed it. They were just hoping."

"That sounds better than the reality of him jilting _me_. Before I forget, I have something for you. It got wet, sorry." She pulled a letter from her pocket.

Her eyes widened. "From Jon?" She took it, hesitated, then opened and read the note quickly once, and then again more slowly. Grelka had no doubt she would read it in secret again and again. She didn't know what it said but she knew Jon and she knew Olfina. Sappy nonsense, no doubt, with no practical solutions to anything.

"Thorald didn't suspect anything?" Olfina asked.

"No. I felt guilty, though, talking to him with that hidden in my pocket." Grelka couldn't help but give advice. "Listen, you know I don't think all this sneaking around is a good idea. Your da—"

"If my family found out I was seeing Jon, they'd ship me off to Windhelm before you could say Stupid Feud."

"Why Windhelm?"

"Uncle Vignar's been saying Whiterun might not be safe for us, especially if Jarl Balgruuf bellies up to the Empire, like everyone's afraid he's going to do."

"Bellies up? What does that mean?"

"The jarl will roll over like a dog if General Tullius kicks him hard enough. Well, that's what Uncle Vignar says. You know General Galmar is Jarl Ulfric's housecarl, right? But he's real busy with the war. So they've been talking about sending me up to help."

"To be Ulfric's housecarl?" Grelka asked in astonishment.

"No, I'll be an aide. Run errands and such. But my uncle is hoping I'll do well and work up to more responsibility. It would be a great opportunity if I wanted to leave Whiterun. Which I don't. Nothing is decided yet, thank Mara. When did you see Jon?"

"The courier from Winterhold just came in. Jon met him for me and received the pommel stone," Grelka said. "He paid the fees, too, as a surprise wedding gift."

"That was really nice."

"It was." Grelka had been so happy and excited to get the stone back. She couldn't wait to show it to Thorald. And now all pleasure was gone. "I set it in the sword just now."

"Can I see?"

"It's in my bedroom, come on."

Olfina admired the sword. "This is your best work, Grelka, it really is. Look how it glitters."

"I had asked for a fire enchantment like on my bow. The mages sent a note saying the stone was much better suited for shock damage and so they took the liberty of changing my instructions. They also asked where I got the material and did I have any more. That was the last of the dragon bone, alas. I spoiled most of what the jarl gave me, learning how to shape it. Do you want to hear something really strange? When I was up at the Skyforge with your brother, lightning struck Dragonsreach. I had my hand in my pocket touching the stone and it shocked me."

Olfina made a face and dropped the sword on the bed. "I have to say that any kind of magic makes me nervous. Da will foam at the mouth. You know how he feels about enchantment. What did Thorald say?"

"I never got the chance to tell him."

She gave the pommel stone a closer look. Without touching it, Grelka noticed. "So this is dragon bone. And you carved it. Why a hawk?"

"For Kynareth. Since I used wood from the sacred tree to forge the sword, I wanted to honor Her." Grelka looked embarrassed. "I call the sword Kyne's Wrath." Not only did Eorlund not hold with enchanting weapons, he didn't hold with naming them either. Said it was the warrior's job to earn a name, not the smith's to bestow one.

"Maybe Grelka's Wrath would be better. Are you really angry? You should be."

"I'm not sure what I'm feeling right now."

"I always knew Thorald was an idiot but this—" She shook her head.

"How's the family taking it?"

"Loudly. Everyone yelling. Except my da, of course."

"Your da didn't say anything?"

"No. Well, he called Thorald an idiot. We all did that. Then your da came storming over to the house and called him an idiot, too. Said he ought to be horse-whipped. Ma took offense. You know how she is. Thorald took most of the abuse pretty well but when Avulstein started in on him, he had enough. Walked out without his cloak. Hope he drowns, the rotten skeever."

"What was Avulstein mad about?"

"Uncle Vignar said if Thorald was to go to Windhelm, Avulstein had to stay here." She gave Grelka a careful look. "He's leaving tomorrow."

"Figures. Destiny calls. I guess he's happy now."

"He doesn't look happy, Grelka. He looks miserable."

"He'll get over it. Take him the sword. Maybe he can put it to good use with the Stormcloaks," Grelka said bitterly. Olfina blinked at her grim expression. She had a bad feeling. What would happen if Grelka sent Thorald a weapon in anger? Nothing good, surely. Anger had to be burning away under her friend's calm veneer. Would Thorald feel like he could accept her wedding gift, now that there was no wedding? Probably not. She had no doubt that her brother was stupid enough to send the sword back. Grelka was already nervous about the enchantment. Rejection of her gift would be a horrible insult. It would be like the old tales, when a jarl sends his enemy an axe. To return it would be a declaration of war.

"I'll take it," Olfina said. But I'm not going to give it to Thorald, she thought. I'll give it to da, let him decide what's best. Because I saw your secret, Grelka, when you bent over just now. You still have those wedding rings on a chain around your neck. So let's not declare war, Grelka, not just yet.

* * *

The next day Grelka trudged up the steps to the Skyforge, filled with dread. But facing his da is the easy part, she told herself. Sooner or later she would have to face Fralia. He had his back to her, working the bellows, but he stopped when she walked into his sight. She reached for the handle. Keeping the forge hot was her job when he was working. But he shook his head.

"It will wait," he said. "How are you, lass?" She shook her head, not sure how to reply.

"What did he tell you?"

"Not much," Eorlund said.

"He's not ready to settle down."

"Hrm. Don't _you_ go off doing anything rash."

"I heard he's going to Windhelm."

"Left at first light. Fool."

"I should leave too."

"Don't. Give it time." He looked over at her face. Grelka's face was set, angry, but he noticed how many times she blinked. "People like us don't make good spouses. Or parents. Vignar was more a father to my children than I was."

"That's not true!"

"Got a speech, lass. I'm going to say it. Any tinker can pound hot metal, but to be a true smith, a master smith—to work the Skyforge—takes a special kind of knowing. The great weapons, the great armors, they have a soul. They're not just made, they're born. You know what I'm talking about."

"Maybe."

"You know. The Skyforge has her secrets. In time, you will learn them. But we pay a price for this knowing. The Skyforge takes us by the heart. Our family gets what's left. Thorald understands that better than most men. If he's having doubts, now is the time for them."

Grelka blinked at him. She had never given much thought to the state of his own marriage.

"Another thing, lass. Vignar may say only a Gray-Mane can work the Skyforge. That's his pride talking. She will choose her own master."

"I don't know if I can face everyone like nothing's happened."

"You can." He laughed at her grimace. "Worried about Fralia's sharp tongue?"

"Yes, in fact." She sighed. "I was thinking about making a trip. Just for awhile."

"Not a good time to travel, lass. War. Bandits."

"Aela has a contract in Riften. I've never been to Riften. I thought I might tag along. That smith I've been trying to get in touch with has never answered my letters. I could go look him up."

"You're not still on about that nonsense, are you, girl? Armor made out of bone? What's the sense in that when we have good steel, right here?"

"They say it's as strong as steel but much lighter. It's a Dunmer secret but supposedly this Mallory fellow in Riften knows it."

"You can't make armor out of bone. Bone breaks. You can cut it with an axe."

"Oh, I don't know. What if it was dragon bone?" Grelka asked.

"We're all out of dragons, lass."


	5. Showdown at the Blue Palace

**5: Showdown at the Blue Palace**

Thorald crossed the White River and Windhelm loomed before him like a surly old bear. The city loomed, there was no other word for it. Clouds hung over the river valley as they usually did. Snowiest city in Skyrim, the carriage driver said. Thorald had to shake off a feeling of insignificance as he left the Stone Quarter and walked up the long avenue, Valunstrad, toward the Palace of the Kings. How many times had Ysgramor walked this very street? How many of the original Five Hundred Companions? He wondered how it would feel to live in a city where history pressed down on one so.

He presented his letter to the palace steward, Jorleif. As a Companion, Thorald had done several jobs in Windhelm and Jorleif remembered him well. He was immediately taken to General Galmar Stone-Fist. The general looked him over and brought him to Jarl Ulfric himself. And so, with few formalities, he found himself a Stormcloak. Jorleif personally took him to the barracks.

"It ain't much," he told Thorald. "Just a bed and a chest for your gear when you're in the city." He grinned. "Fighter like you, chances are good you won't be sleeping here much."

"Fine by me," Thorald said. He was ready for action.

Action came sooner than he expected. That very afternoon, Galmar and Jorleif sought him out.

"Can you act?" the general asked.

"Can I act?"

"Jorleif here says you can mimic just about anyone. Can you speak in the jarl's voice?"

Thorald's eyebrows shot up. The steward gave him an encouraging hand wave. Thorald expanded his chest so he could drop to the jarl's range.

"Slow down, old friend, and explain yourself," he said in Ulfric's low rolling tone. "Can't you see this recruit is a bit lack-witted and confused?" Jorleif snickered and even the general cracked a smile.

"That's not bad," Galmar said.

"Not bad? It's perfect," Jorleif said. "Close your eyes and you'd think the jarl stood before us."

"Let me see your gear," Galmar said. Thorald opened his chest, totally mystified. Thank Talos he had taken the time to put his things away neatly, although he certainly hadn't expected an inspection from the general of the Stormcloaks. On his first day, no less. "A sword man, eh?" Galmar said. "Can you use an axe?"

"Aye," Thorald said.

"For more than splitting firewood?"

Thorald decided not to take offense. "Aye."

The general continued to poke around in his chest. He picked up a breastplate. "So this is that wolf armor I've heard about." Thorald's heavy armor was in the chest. He was wearing the light armor he had travelled in. "Can you ride a horse?" the general asked.

"I can," Thorald said. "I don't own one though." The Companions kept a small string of horses at the Whiterun Stable but he wasn't here on Companion business, of course.

"That don't matter." Galmar turned to Jorleif. "Think he'll do?"

"Yep."

"So do I. Listen up, Gray-Mane. Meet us at the docks at first light. Hope you don't get seasick. Wear that armor you've got on, not the wolf armor and not your uniform. Leave them here. And leave that sword, too. See the quartermaster today and get a war axe."

"But—"

Galmar held up his hand. "A friendly reminder, boy. You're no Companion here. You're a soldier. I've given you what we soldiers like to call an _order_."

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing. I ever catch you copying _my_ voice, you're going to be talking out of the wrong side of your face."

"Understood, sir."

Galmar and Jorleif swept out of the barracks and Thorald shook his head. His first day in Windhelm. He'd sworn an oath and received a mission. Maybe soon he'd find out what it was. Or at least where it was.

* * *

The merchant ship took them to Solitude. Thorald was more impressed with the capitol city than he wished to admit. He knew Solitude was the center of Imperial corruption in Skyrim but he hadn't known it would be so big, so busy, or so clean and efficient. Corruption ought to be dirtier. Solitude made Whiterun seem small and rustic. Solitude made Windhelm seem dingy and battered. History oozed from Windhelm's pores, an austere history that looked down its nose. You're no Ysgramor, those ancient walls seemed to sneer. But Solitude—bustling cosmopolitan Solitude—was too busy to sneer. Here you saw all the races of man as well as high elves, dark elves, wood elves and even Argonians right out in the street. No one seemed to mind or even notice.

And the streets teemed, absolutely _teemed_ with Imperial soldiers.

As ordered, Thorald wasn't in uniform, but he still felt as if he had Stormcloak branded on his forehead. In his pack was a rolled up tabard, the one Jarl Ulfric occasionally wore over his field armor. They'd come in quietly the night before. His first sight of the huge natural bridge where Solitude perched like a raucous sea bird had amazed him. And the bustling docks had opened his eyes.

"This port is where Imperial gold flows into Skyrim," the jarl had said. They entered the city without fanfare. Jarl Ulfric, Galmar Stone-Fist, Thorald and a few trusted men booked rooms at the inn but they didn't relax after the rough sail across the Sea of Ghosts. Imperial stronghold it might be but there were plenty of Stormcloak sympathizers in Solitude and many of them had information for Ulfric. Thorald's particular job had been to interview a couple of the maids who worked in the Thalmor Embassy. The embassy wasn't actually located in Solitude but in the hills nearby. The maids had arranged to come into Solitude and meet Thorald in the Winking Skeever's common room. Under the cover of flirting, they slipped him tallies of the guards and their shift schedule, as well as detailed lists of embassy personnel (from the First Ambassador Elenwen on down). Almost a third of the Nord staff at the embassy—the maids, grooms and other servants—were actually Stormcloak spies. Arranging that had taken months, Galmar told him.

"And now we move," the general said the next day. Thorald still didn't know what the plan was but the anticipation rolling off Galmar told him it was something big. "You know what you're to do?"

"Wait for your signal in the alley behind the inn," Thorald said. "Galmar, who are these men I'll be with?"

"They're true Nords. That's all you need to know. They'll be wearing hoods, as will you. We've got an urchin lurking at the Blue Palace who will run and tell you when it's time."

"Then I put on the tabard and leave conspicuously."

"Conspicuously. That's a good one. Yeah, make sure that tabard's seen but keep your hood up. You've got the height but that beard of yours will never pass for Ulfric's." Thorald gave his beard a self-conscious tug. "Ulfric made a point of speaking to the guards when we arrived yesterday so likely at least one will recognize his voice," Galmar continued. "If they do, that's icing on the sweet roll. At any rate, they'll know the tabard. When you go through that gate, you're going to be in a hurry. I've got a reliable man with the horses. Ralof. Don't know that you've met him. He rode up from one of our camps and has been here a few days, waiting for us. You all ride off to Dragon Bridge like the Legion is after you." He chuckled. "They will be, soon enough."

"Why? What's going to happen?"

"If all goes well, you'll find out. But I'll tell you this. Those who've tried to take the name of Talos from us, those who've shut their ears to our cause, they're going to be listening from now on." Galmar laughed like a boy with a prank all planned out. "They'll listen, all right."

"Once I get past the bridge, we disappear."

"Aye. The local men will slip back to Solitude. You and Ralof head east. Take the back roads. He knows the way. Avoid Morthal. I don't trust that witch sitting in the jarl's seat." Galmar eyed him. "You understand your orders?"

"Leave a conspicuous trail south, then disappear. Meet you back in Windhelm."

"Aye. We've got another way out of the city and a ship waiting snug in one of those pirate landings. If the winds are with us, Ulfric and I will be back in Windhelm long before you."

* * *

Thorald and the three local men lurked quietly behind the tavern. They probed him for information but he knew no more than they did. The men passed a bottle of mead around, pretending to be drunk. This goes on much longer, Thorald thought, they won't be pretending. He had a bottle but was too keyed up to drink. All I need is a nervous bladder from a bellyful of mead, he thought. Mucking up his first assignment wouldn't earn him a second one.

There was a loud roar in the distance. For a moment he thought it was thunder but the sky was clear.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Came from the palace," one of the men said.

"That was Ulfric," an older man said. "That was a Shout. Just like Markarth."

"Ulfric can Shout?" the first man asked.

"Aye. He can Shout, just like the heroes from the old tales."

"That was probably our signal," Thorald said. He slipped on the tabard and pulled his cloak over it. A moment later, a girl raced into the alley, her eyes stretched big with excitement.

"Da!"

"Is it time, lass?" one of the men asked. "What happened?"

"Jarl Ulfric went into the Blue Palace, right by where I was hiding. The king looked real surprised to see him. He said, 'Hail, Ulfric, well met. What brings you here?' People were standing around, dressed all fancy. The king was all fancy too, with a gold crown on his head. Jarl Ulfric said something about Talos and then he said—" She paused to take a breath. "He said 'I challenge you for the leadership of Skyrim'."

The men exchanged glances. Ysmir's beard, Thorald thought. When last had a High King been challenged?

"And the king said 'what?'. The king stood up. He looked real upset. Someone said 'you can't do that' and everyone started hollering all at once. Then the jarl stepped forward and a really loud yell came out of his mouth. It was so loud, all the fancy people fell down. The king flew across the room and hit the wall. His crown fell off and rolled away. The jarl pulled out his axe. He said something about Skyrim and freedom. Then he said 'stand and face me'. And that's when I ran away!"

"You've done well, child. Run off home, right now and stay there. Don't say anything about this to anyone. Not even your ma! Now go."

Thorald, mind reeling, made sure his hood was back in place.

"Ulfric challenged the High King?" a man whispered. "Did he win?"

"Of course he won," another replied. "Ever see Torygg? I have. Ulfric could best him with his eyes closed."

"Rally to me, men," Thorald said in Ulfric's voice. "We ride."

The staged escape went well enough. The locals had arranged to have the city gate opened, so there was no maddening delay to search for a gate guard. Ralof was at the stable, as planned, and the horses were saddled and ready. Thorald made sure to speak a few words in the stable man's hearing and flashed his tabard. And then they rode. At Dragon Bridge, Thorald was seen by a few bored guards. They had outpaced any pursuit. Had Ulfric made it safely out of the palace?

South of the ancient bridge, they split up. Thorald weighted the tabard with stones and dropped it into the Karth River. Now they were all dressed as ordinary travelers. The local men planned to take an extended hunting trip and turned their horses loose to find their own way back to the stable in Solitude. Ralof and Thorald reluctantly released their horses as well.

"Where we're going now, horses won't help," Ralof said. "We're going east through the swamps of Hjaalmarch. No one can track us there."

They followed game trails east until dusk, then holed up for the night in a shallow cave. They couldn't risk a fire so they munched on the cold rations from Ralof's pack. They didn't even speak, for fear their voices would carry through the silent scrubland. Once, far in the distance, they heard horses' hooves ring out on the road.

"That's the road to Morthal," he whispered. "They're too far south to find us." Thorald could see his grin gleam through his beard under the light of the moons.

The next day they crossed the swamp. It was a long tedious slog—wet boots, stinging insects and the occasional mud crab attack.

"We could lose an entire legion here," Ralof said with satisfaction. He seemed more willing to talk now that the sun was up. Although not much older than Thorald, Ralof was one of the jarl's inner circle. He'd traveled with him for years, as much a bodyguard as a soldier and he had plenty of tales.

"Did you know Ulfric was going to challenge the High King?" Thorald asked.

"Aye. He wanted to stride into the Blue Palace and call Torygg out before his own court. The Moot has much to answer for, putting that puppet of the Empire above all the other jarls. His father, Istlod, wasn't so bad but Torygg was fickle as the grass, blowing this way and that. Doing anything General Tullius told him, so long as the emperor's gold kept rolling in."

"We heard Ulfric's Shout all the way across the city."

"All Solitude heard Ulfric's thu'um. We heard him out in the stables. That will give Tullius something to think about." Ralof grinned. "Ulfric studied with the Greybeards years ago, up in their monastery in High Hrothgar. That's where he learned to Shout. The Greybeards call it the thu'um."

"I didn't know the Greybeards talked to anyone."

"They rarely do." Ralof squinted off in the distance. "That ruin up ahead is Ustengrav. They say it's full of draugr and treasure. We'll be crossing into the Pale before long."

"Good," Thorald said. Skald the Elder, jarl of the Pale, was one of Ulfric's supporters.

"We're not far from a Stormcloak camp. We can get horses. We shouldn't have anything to worry about now. Stormcloak territory from here to Windhelm."

"If Torygg is dead, does that make Ulfric High King?" Thorald asked.

"He will wait for the Moot to decide. For now, Ulfric wants to send a message to the jarls that the old ways are more than just a legend. The old Skyrim is stronger than this weak Empire, just as Ulfric is stronger than that milk-drinking Torygg they saddled us with. We need a High King who will stand up to the emperor and his elven masters. The jarls can stand with us and be strong. Or like the emperor, they can bend their knee to the Thalmor, who will stop at nothing until all men are their slaves and Skyrim is no more."

He wiped his beard and gave Thorald a grin. "Sorry, got a bit worked up there. I think Galmar said you're from Whiterun? You'll have to tell me what you think of Jarl Balgruuf sometime. Me, I'm also from Whiterun Hold. From Riverwood."

"We're practically neighbors."

They talked a bit about mutual acquaintances and Thorald finally worked up the nerve to ask if he knew Grelka. "Her da has a big horse farm near Riverwood."

"Oh, aye," Ralof said. "I know him. Don't remember her well. Little spitfire as I recall. What just happened to her da was a bad thing. The kind of thing that will be happening more and more if we don't get Skyrim back in the hands of true Nords."

"Something happened to her da? Recently?"

"Aye. Got this from the carriage driver in Solitude. They're always first with the news. You know her da has the best horses in Skyrim. Famous for it. He's been that nervous, ever since the war started heating up. Decided to leave Skyrim, and go somewhere safer. He ran into an Imperial patrol near the border and they took all his horses. For the war effort, they said."

"Imperials stole his horses?" Thorald asked. That was ironic, to put it mildly.

"They don't call it stealing. And they didn't just take the horses, they confiscated all the gold he had on him. But it's not stealing because they paid him and gave him a receipt. And get this, they paid him in scrip."

"What's scrip?"

"Imperial paper money. Ever since the Great War, gold has been in short supply in Cyrodiil. They have to pay their soldiers in gold or they'll desert. Ha. But everyone else gets scrip. They took everything he had and paid him in paper. No bank or merchant honors scrip at anything close to face value, if they even take it at all. The Imperials said if he didn't like it, he could petition the emperor."

"The man is a fool but he didn't deserve that. Grelka must be devastated."

They squelched on in silence for awhile.

"They say your da is Eorlund Gray-Mane."

"He is," Thorald said.

"But that axe you got, that ain't Skyforge steel. That's standard issue."

"Galmar made me leave my gear in Windhelm."

"Oh, aye, since Ulfric uses an axe. I'd heard Grelka was up in Whiterun, making a name for herself at the Skyforge. So I reckon you know her pretty well?"

"We were going to get married. Until right before I came to Windhelm to sign up."

"Ah. Sorry to hear that." Ralof gave a sympathetic look. "Same with me, I reckon. There was this girl in Helgen. Ever been to Helgen?"

"I've ridden through it on the way to Falkreath."

"Her name is Vilod. She has a tavern in Helgen. If you ever stopped there, you'd remember her mead. Makes a good living brewing and selling it to those Imperials at the fort. Your mead's wasted on those milkdrinkers, I told her. Come with me, I told her. But she wanted me to settle down in Helgen." He shook his head. "But I can't settle down. Not now. Not until we can live free in our own land. And the only way that's going to happen is if we fight for it." He sighed. "We're at war. It's no time to marry. No time to start a family. But by Talos, I wish it was."

"I wish it was," Thorald echoed.


	6. Making Waves in Riften

_Author's Note: This chapter gave me fits, sorry for the delay and hope y'all enjoy it. _

**Making Waves in Riften**

Anuriel left Mistveil Keep not long after dawn, while the marketplace was deserted and silent. Glass crunched underfoot as she picked her way around broken bottles, remnants of last night's rowdiness. The city had celebrated nightly since the news of King Torygg's death. Mead had flowed like a sticky river through the Grand Plaza and Stormcloak sympathy had risen to a frenzy. Fortunately for Anuriel the revelers had finally wandered off to their beds. The jarl didn't know of this errand, of course, so Anuriel had no guard to protect her from harassment. To many of these backwater Nords, all elves looked alike and there was no guarantee they would know her as Bosmer (and their jarl's steward!) and not one of the hated Altmer.

Many of the locals had lost family to the Thalmor in the Great War. Their antipathy was perfectly understandable. She had let it be known that she, too, had lost kin to the Thalmor in far-off Valenwood. It wasn't true—no one in her family was fool enough to cross the Aldmeri Dominion—but it made a good story and she told it well. Even the notorious old Stormcloak Vulwulf Snow-Shod had once patted her arm in sympathy.

The debris stopped well short of Black-Briar Manor as if the house were protected by an invisible ward. In a way, it was. No doubt the city guard would swiftly deal with anyone foolish enough (or drunk enough) to cause a ruckus right outside Maven Black-Briar's home. The manor was quiet but Anuriel's knock was promptly answered. Maven's servant left her in the parlor and told her Lady Black-Briar would be right with her.

And then she waited. She had missed her breakfast to make this early morning meeting but where was Maven? Anuriel was steward to Laila Law-Giver, jarl of Riften. She was busy, she was important, she had meetings scheduled and things to do. Why did Maven keep her waiting like a tradesman in this stuffy little parlor? Was it Nord prejudice against an elf? She told herself to stay calm. If Maven saw her annoyance, she would make a point of always keeping her waiting.

Maven knew how busy she was. After all, Maven had plucked her out of the Thieves Guild and gave her this job.

The door opened and Anuriel heard the clink of dishes from the dining room. Maven had been eating breakfast while she sat here fasting! Maven strode in. Anuriel tightened her hands on her notebook when she saw her face. Maven's face often bore the lines of discontent but now her jaw was clenched with frustrated anger. What was wrong? Anuriel rapidly checked her conscience.

"Did you have a good trip?" she asked timidly.

"No, I did not." If Maven were a Khajit, she'd be lashing her tail, Anuriel thought. "Incompetence. Nothing but incompetence."

Anuriel did another quick check of her conscience.

"If Ulfric wins this damned war, it will be because of those fools in Solitude. I'm sure you've heard about King Torygg's death. Ulfric waltzes into Solitude, bold as brass, kills the king and disappears before anyone thinks to call the guard. Tullius and the Thalmor let Ulfric slip through their fingers. For all their claims of efficiency—oh, I have no patience for it."

Anuriel blinked. Shouldn't Maven be glad of this? The Rift backed Ulfric in this war. Why was Maven so vexed?

"They didn't try to arrest him?"

"Ulfric was not to be found. So they said." Maven grimaced. "All that time I spent cultivating Torygg—wasted. The gifts I sent that man! We had an understanding. I suppose now they will put that hen-witted Elisif on the throne." Maven's voice dripped scorn. "You should have heard her wailing in the palace, in front of everyone. You'd think no one had ever lost her man."

Maven dropped into a chair. Her restless fingers thrummed the chair's arm. "Ulfric has made a bold move and I don't see how to play it to my favor. That man is dangerously unpredictable." She shook her head. "The chaos in Solitude was unbelievable. I had to endure hours of Elenwen berating Tullius for letting Ulfric escape Solitude. They're both fools. In the end we may end up with Ulfric as High King! I can work with him if I must but he's a fanatic. Fanatics cause problems."

Elenwen was the First Emissary of the Thalmor's embassy in Skyrim. Anuriel's heart sank. "You've been meeting with the Thalmor?"

"Of course I have. I must be seen at Elenwen's insipid soirees, you know. And listen to her put on airs. Business is business, even in wartime."

"I don't think it's wise to—"

Maven blinked in astonished wrath. "What did you say?"

Anuriel squirmed. "The Thalmor, they're so hated here. People don't like it when they hear you're dealing with them."

"People don't like it? Most people in Riften have sense enough not to criticize me to my face."

"I—I'm sorry."

"Don't stutter. I can't abide stuttering." Maven gave her a long unpleasant look. "Ulfric himself has had his dealings with the Thalmor, a fact I may need to remind people of, should they dare to cause trouble. I believe that is quite unlikely." She tapped the table impatiently. "I hear the jarl's son has made a spectacle of himself."

How does she do it, Anuriel wondered. She's been out of town for days yet she knows everything that happens. I thought _I_ was her spy.

"I'm afraid so," Anuriel said demurely, keeping her spite from her face. The jarl's oldest son Harrald was an intolerable brat but it was the youngest, Saerlund, that caused the most trouble for her personally. He saw too much and questioned too much. Harrald, at least, understood how things were done here in Riften and he knew why it was to his advantage to not make waves. "Saerlund spoke out for the Empire after dinner last night. He actually came out and said that Torygg's death was murder, not a lawful duel. The jarl sent him to his room."

"She sent him to his room like a naughty child? Laila has no control over her sons. If he doesn't shut his mouth, someone is likely to shut it for him. " Maven frowned. "They're calling Torygg's death murder in Whiterun as well. Has anything noteworthy happened in my absence?"

"One small issue, yes," Anuriel said nervously. "A group of townsfolk, mostly business owners, met with the jarl. They demanded a test of the new fire pump. Laila started to agree with them but I nipped in and stopped her."

"See that you continue to do so. That's what I pay you for." She tapped her foot in thought. "Have the pump develop some temporary mechanical problem." She smiled. "Charge Laila for the repairs." Anuriel dutifully smiled back. Riften had nearly burned to the ground years ago and had never fully recovered. Fire was a threat the city took seriously. Maven knew that, and had charged the jarl a fortune for a phony Dwemer fire pump to replace the unreliable water brigade in current use. The gold had gone to finance Maven's bribes to the Moot. She fully intended to be the next jarl of Riften.

"During the meeting, Wylandriah piped up with some scheme of her own. Unintelligible, of course."

Maven laughed. "Of course. At least we don't have to worry that any scheme of hers will cause us trouble. Hiring that lunatic as court mage was a stroke of inspiration. She wouldn't see trouble if it bit off the end of her nose. But speaking of trouble—"

Maven's hands tightened in a death grip on the arms of her chair.

"I called in at Honningbrew Meadery on my way back from Solitude. That damned fool Sabjorn hasn't answered my letters. And when I dropped by the meadery, he refused to see me. Refused! He had his tap boy tell me we had nothing to discuss."

"I take it he has turned down your offer then."

"Ha! I've withdrawn my offer of partnership. He'll regret making an enemy out of me. Is that Imperial you found—what was his name? Is he in place?"

"Mallus Maccius. Yes, he awaits your commands," Anuriel said.

"Good. Sabjorn had his chance to work with me. Now I'm going to ruin him."

* * *

Her aunt insisted Grelka ride Frost to Riften.

"A racehorse needs a lot of exercise, dear," she said. That was her gentle hint that everyone in the stable needed a break from Frost and his antics. Aela rode with her on one of the Companions' horses. She didn't like riding but smirked at Grelka and said, "You wouldn't be able to keep up with me on foot." Which was undoubtedly true. Traveling with Aela was—what? Grelka struggled to find the correct word. Restful? Restful hardly described a woman of such detached intensity. Her characteristic silence left Grelka plenty of time to brood over Thorald, her da's losses and this strange news of the death of the High King.

Of Thorald, all Aela had to say was, "My Shield Brother is a fool. Most men are." But she added, "If he had accepted the beast-blood, he'd not settle for playing soldier and taking orders." Grelka blinked and decided to think about that later. As if there was any point in thinking about what might have been instead of what was.

Of her da's misfortune, Aela said, "Unlikely the Imperials met him by chance. Someone tipped them off." Grelka agreed, only uncertain if loose talk had been picked up by an informer or if this was revenge from one of the hands her da had fired.

And of Torygg's death, Aela had shrugged and said, "Politics."

They parted at Riften. Aela arranged for the carriage driver to lead her horse back to Whiterun. She had a contract to clear out a nearby cave of trolls. She said she could best do that on foot but Grelka knew she was itching to get out of human form.

"You'll be all right getting back to Whiterun on your own?" Aela asked.

"I'll follow the carriage when I'm ready to go," she said. A lot of lone travelers did so for safety these days. A carriage had been attacked by bandits once. The carriage drivers were well armed but those particular bandits had been swarmed by irate passengers on their way to a funeral. One of them, a bard, had commemorated the event with a humorous ditty. Since then, bandits left the carriages alone.

This was Grelka's first trip to Riften and she had already decided it would be her last one. The gate guard tried to shake her down for gold and it had taken a heated discussion to make him back down. Once inside, she was stunned by the stench. Aela had tried to warn her but Grelka had assumed her beast-blood nose was oversensitive. Not so. Rotten fish from the docks, raw sewage from the canals, and over it all lay the sickly sweetness of the city's famous meadery. Ugh.

Beggars sat in the street and harangued bystanders. That would never have been allowed in Whiterun. The marketplace was crowded and every time someone bumped her she expected to have her pocket picked. Aela had warned her of that, too. There were Argonians and dark elves _everywhere_. Grelka had lived in Skyrim her whole life and never, ever had she felt like a minority. Until now.

It was strange and unsettling.

The news of High King Torygg's death had outraced her to the city and the story of Ulfric's meeting with the king grew wilder with each retelling.

The smithy, the Scorched Hammer, was right off the marketplace. She'd never met Balimund but when she introduced herself as Eorlund's apprentice, a smile lit his craggy face.

"You're the armor smith, right? A fellow came through town a few years ago," Balimund said. "He had this black shiny armor—never seen anything like it. I reckon you made it."

"That was chaurus chitin."

Balimund showed her around his smithy and they jumped right into an exchange of shop talk. He was proud of his forge. It was no Skyforge but there was something special about it. Grelka couldn't quite put her finger on what, but there was a strange smell and something—well, something _alive_ about the glowing forge.

"I've seen people make armor out of mudcrab chitin," Balimund said, once they'd stepped inside his house. His apprentice scurried nearby, bringing snacks and mead—Black-Briar mead from the local meadery. It was very good.

"Chitin is light, flimsy stuff," he said.

"Chaurus chitin is better than mudcrab but still a bit brittle. I was never quite happy about how it performed in the field."

"You can't beat steel for protection."

She laughed. "You sound like Eorlund. And you're both wrong. For most people, light armor is better. And I'm going to prove it."

"Was a bit surprised to hear old Eorlund took an apprentice not kin," Balimund said. "Always been a Gray-Mane at the Skyforge."

"I pestered him until he had to teach me," she said. Balimund looked over at his own apprentice, Asbjorn Fire-Tamer.

"Sounds familiar," he said.

"Hey!" Asbjorn said. Then he laughed. "I would have pestered him if I'd had the nerve," he added. "I was in the orphanage. Honorhall Orphanage. Balimund met me and I guess we took a shine to each other."

"I know talent when I see it," Balimund said fondly. "I had a repair job at the fishery and that's where I saw Asbjorn. A skinny little brat but working hard as any man."

"I'll always be grateful for getting out of that orphanage."

"Orphanage," Balimund said scornfully. "Workhouse is more like it. That hag that runs it, they call her Grelod the Kind. Stoneheart would be a better name. Farms those children out to every dirty job in town and do they see one septim of their wages?"

"She told us we'd never be adopted so we might as well learn a trade."

"Someone should treat Grelod with the same 'kindness' she shows those children," Balimund said. "But enough of that. You said you came to Riften looking for a smith?" he asked Grelka. "This is the only smithy in town."

"So you've never heard of this man, Mallory?"

"No," Balimund said. "But, now that I think of it—"

"Yes?" she asked encouragingly.

"They say there used to be a smithy down in the Ratway. Supplied the Thieves Guild their armor and weapons. But that was years ago."

"The Ratway? What's that?"

"The city under the city. Riften's very old, you see. We had a bad jarl, a long time ago. My grandda told stories that would curl your beard. In the end, the people rose up and set the palace on fire, with the jarl inside. So that took care of him. But the flames spread, you see, and most of the town went up as well. We're still rebuilding years later and the city is just a shadow of what it once was. We were a major hub for trade with Morrowind." He turned to Asbjorn and beckoned for another bottle of mead. "Of course, Morrowind ain't what it was, either."

He took a swig. "City's being rebuilt in wood. That's all we can afford. And folks are real nervous about fire, as you might guess. The jarl raised a special tax last year. She's put in a Dwemer fire pump. They say it will never fail. You might have noticed those little boxes around town. If there's a fire you break the glass and there's a handle that starts the pump. Somehow. I haven't seen it. I reckon it's down below, by the old cistern in the Ratway."

"You were going to tell me what the Ratway is," she prompted.

"Well, it's mostly the old sewer system. Tunnels and such that were part of the old city. We've built right over the top of it. They say it's huge. Riften itself was much bigger than it is now."

"And people live down there?"

"Desperate ones do," Balimund said. "Beggars, fugitives, madmen. And the Thieves Guild, of course. It was said they had their own city down there but, like everything else in Riften, they're just a shadow of their former 'glory'."

"The Thieves Guild was glorious?"

"Once the Thieves Guild in Riften controlled most of the crime in Skyrim. Now they content themselves with shaking down the local merchants and doing Maven Black-Briar's dirty work."

"They shake you down?"

"That's part of the cost of doing business in Riften." He gave her a concerned look. "They may be a shadow of what they were but the shadow still has teeth. The Ratway is a dangerous place, lass."

"But this smith I'm looking for might still be down there?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Who would know?"

"Someone in the Thieves Guild, I suppose. That fellow Brynjolf that sells elixirs in the marketplace—they say he's a big man in the guild."

"I'll find him."

"Lass—be careful."

"If he messes with me, I'll holler for a guard. Don't worry. "

"That's part of the problem. The guard's in Maven Black-Briar's pocket and she more or less owns the guild as well."

"You've said her name before."

"Aye. She owns the meadery. Owns the town really. Nothing happens here without Maven's say-so."

"And people put up with that?"

Balimund shrugged. "Been that way a long time. The jarl means well, I suppose, but she's not practical. Maven gets things done. Of course she gets her cut off the top but I reckon all the jarls are like that with their taxes, if you think about it. That's just the way things are here." Even though they were inside, Balimund lowered his voice. "Riften supports the Stormcloaks. You know that, right? Some folks say if the war goes against us, the Imperials will put Maven on the throne."

"The Moot would never agree to that."

"Wouldn't they? This war's expensive and is going to be more expensive before it's done. Most of the jarls are already digging deep into their coffers. And they say Black-Briar gold is going to buy her all the votes she needs." He leaned back. "But that's just a rumor, you know. And it can be dangerous to speak of such things. So be careful. Riften's not a bad town but it can be tricky for outsiders. Keep your coin purse safe and watch what you say. Stay out of dark alleys and stay out of the Ratway. And you'll be fine."

* * *

"Hey, Delvin!," Dirge said. "Oh, sorry, old man. Did I interrupt your nap?"

Delvin Mallory glared at the bouncer. "What do you want? Spit it out."

A depressed silence had fallen over the Ragged Flagon. Silences here, deep in the Ratway, were silent indeed. If he had dozed—just a little—it was hardly surprising. He glanced around. Vex and Vekel still bickered quietly in the corner and Tonilia—now just where had Tonilia got to? If she was flirting with Brynjolf again, she'd better be damned careful. Tonilia's reaction to boredom had always been to stir the pot. Her man, Vekel, was never exactly easy-going but now, with the luck still against them, tensions continued to climb. A stirred pot could boil over.

"Some girl has been asking about you topside," Dirge said.

"What girl?"

"Don't know. Maul talked to her. He said she's Nord, she's pretty and she's got some real nice custom armor. And she was asking for Brynjolf too."

"What does she want?"

"Maul asked what her business was and she said it was none of his. He tried to lean on her a little and she got snippy. Told him off."

"Is that so? Was she armed?"

"Maul didn't say."

"Well, well. Not sure I like the sound of this."

"You want I should put up the drawbridge?" Dirge asked.

"Yeah. Put it up. I don't like visitors and I don't like surprises. She staying at the Bee and Barb?"

"Don't know."

"Send Sapphire up to find out. If she is, tell Sapphire to case her room. Not to take anything, just to look it over, okay?"

"I'll let her know."

* * *

Wylandriah closed the door to her sanctum with a sigh and pushed back her hood. She'd been so pleased to be appointed court wizard to the jarl in Riften. It had seemed such a step up from being just another student at the College of Winterhold. If she had known what it would be like, she'd have never left the college.

"Well? How did it go?"

Wylandriah jumped. "Saerlund! What are you doing here? Did we have an appointment?"

The gloomy young Nord slumped back into his chair. "No," he said. "I've been lurking here. Sorry. It's just so quiet and restful."

Not with you here, it isn't, she thought. "Don't rearrange those bowls, they're in order. I think."

"But what did she say?"

"Your mother?"

"Of course, my mother. You had a meeting with her. Is she sending me away?"

"Your mother is very worried about you, Saerlund." But her tone was a bit dubious. Saerlund scowled.

"Ha."

"But I managed to convince her that you were neither mad nor possessed."

"She thinks I'm mad? Because I don't agree with her? Because I think we should honor our oaths to the Empire? Because I don't worship the ground beneath Jarl Ulfric's feet?" He lurched to his feet and began pacing. Wylandriah watched anxiously as he strode between shelves crowded with expensive and delicate glassware.

"Being mad isn't so bad," Wylandriah said. "As long as you're the useful sort of mad and not the raving sort."

Saerlund stopped and stared at her. "Sometimes I think I _am_ going mad. Riften will do that to you."

"Really? Something in the water, do you think? I've often thought it unhealthy, living so close to the canals. Night vapors, you know. Particularly when it seems everyone throws their waste—"

"That's not what I mean! I'm talking about the corruption—"

"Yes, me too, most unsanitary—"

"I'm talking about political corruption!"

Wylandriah blinked. "I'm sure that's unsanitary as well."

But Saerlund was wound up. "My ma is jarl of this city, but who makes the decisions? Maven Black-Briar does. She controls the Thieves Guild, she owns half the town and even my mother does what she says. She's nothing but a greedy old hag who cares about nothing but herself."

"Your mother isn't that bad."

"I meant Maven." He sighed. "And there's nothing I can do about it, nothing anyone can do. And if you speak up, like I tried to do, you get squashed. I feel so useless."

"Everyone needs to feel useful."

"Useful. Ha! I've been disinherited in favor of Harrald and he won't lift a finger to help anyone but possibly himself. There's no place for anyone useful around here, unless you're useful to Maven, perhaps."

"Why don't you make yourself useful to me? It will be good practice for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I need some supplies for my experiments." She felt her pockets then looked around. "I've got a list around here somewhere. You didn't touch any papers, did you?"

"No. Your experiments? You're not going to blow up the palace are you? Like Winterhold? Not that that is such a bad idea."

"No, no. Almost certainly not. This is for the city's protection. It's—I'd tell you but that would ruin the surprise." She spotted a paper on the floor, under the table. "You said you hadn't moved any papers."

"I didn't!" He looked at the list. "Wylandriah, I'm under house arrest. I can't go running off to Ivarstead and all these other places."

"Oh. Never mind then."

"You're not even going to nag me? I wish I could help. I really do. I don't want to be like Harrald, always thinking he's better than everyone because he's the jarl's son."

"You're the jarl's son."

"I'm the disgraced son." His expression lightened. "But you're right. Give me that list. I may be in disgrace but the courier doesn't know that. He can fetch these things for you."

Wylandriah smiled.

* * *

Right around supper time, Sapphire strolled into the Ragged Flagon. She plopped down at Delvin's table and propped her feet up in the empty chair.

"Who _is_ this girl?" Sapphire asked.

"That's what I sent you to find out."

Brynjolf wandered over from the bar and knocked Sapphire's feet out of the chair so he could join them.

"Her name's Grelka and she's from Whiterun," Sapphire said, giving Brynjolf a mild glare, mere reflex. "That's all they know at the inn. So I went through her stuff. Interesting." She drawled the word out, watching Brynjolf from the corner of her eye.

"Well?" Delvin asked.

"You asked did she have weapons. She does. A sword and a bow. Skyforge steel, both top of the line. The bow is enchanted."

"So you think she is a Companion?" Brynjolf asked.

"Wait. There's more. She had a case of tools. All the best quality."

"What kind of tools?"

"Hammers, saws, awls, lots of gadgets I didn't recognize. Not thieving tools, if that's what you wondered."

"Any coin?" Brynjolf asked. "Jewelry?"

"She must be carrying it on her."

"Anything else?" Delvin asked. He knew there was, he could practically see Sapphire quiver.

"Oh, yes. She has this horse. Got papers on him, some long string of names I can't pronounce. His lineage. The boy at the stables called him Frost. Acted like he was famous or something."

"Frost?" Delvin said. "Well, well, well."

"You know about this horse? Is he valuable?" Brynjolf asked.

"Is he valuable?" Delvin repeated. "You don't follow the races, now do you, Bryn? You should. Lots of gold changes hands at the horse races."

"He's a racehorse?" Brynjolf asked.

"A very well-known racehorse. Without his papers, I'd say you could get several thousand septims for him, easy, just on his reputation." He grinned at their look and smirked at Sapphire. "_With _his papers—well, now. I'd say that horse would about be worth your weight in gold, young lady."

Sapphire whistled. "I've never stolen a horse," she said. "First time for everything, right?"

Brynjolf rubbed his hand across his chin stubble.

"We do this right," Delvin said, "We can earn quite a bit of coin and prestige for the guild. We do this wrong—"

"Out where I'm from, they hang horse thieves," Sapphire said.

"They hang them everywhere," Delvin said.

"We'll do it right," Brynjolf said. "I'll see to it personally."


	7. The Unthinkable Happens

_Author's Note: Hope you enjoy! Would love some feedback, feel free to review or PM me._

**7: The Unthinkable Happens**

Thorald's intrepid horse labored hard as he ruthlessly drove her west towards Riverwood. Ulfric, captured! Could there be a worse disaster? Betrayed and captured and even now in Imperial hands. Taken but where?

Scores of desperate Stormcloaks searched the roads for any sign of their missing leader. With a small honor guard, Ulfric had gone south to meet a group of Bruma Nords, sympathizers from Cyrodiil who had pledged gold and men to their cause. He, or they, had been betrayed. All that was known for certain was that an elite Legionnaire strike force had come upon Ulfric and his guard, and plucked them out of Stormcloak territory. And that much was only known because a scout, left for dead, had only been half dead.

"They'll take him to Solitude," Galmar had said. "They'll want to put on a show." His face was as pale as one so storm-weathered could be. He kept his hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling. His eyes devoured the map in Ulfric's war room as he calculated distances and time. "We'll send riders on all the main roads."

"They may take back roads," Ulfric's steward, Jorleif, said. "They must know we'll be after him."

"Maybe," Galmar said. It had been luck, that a Stormcloak patrol had spotted the dying scout and revived him with healing potions. The Legion may not be aware that pursuit was so swift on their heels, Thorald thought. He forced his clenched jaws to relax. If the Legion was smart, they'd kill Ulfric on the spot. Do that, and the war was over. Ulfric didn't even have an heir, as far as Thorald knew, and the other jarls—Laila of the Rift, Skald of the Pale, and Korir of Winterhold—was there a true leader amongst them?

But surely Galmar was right and they would want a show. Ulfric couldn't disappear into an unmarked grave. The Empire would need a spectacle to prove their control. General Tullius would need a public execution and a display of the body.

"Likely they'll head west to Morthal," Galmar continued. "Or they might pass through Whiterun. Balgruuf hasn't declared himself yet but he won't stop Imperials from passing through his hold."

"Falkreath is actually the closest Imperial hold," Thorald offered as he studied the map. "There's a fort there. At Helgen."

Galmar's bloodshot eyes made his stare more intimidating than usual. "You think they intend to take him further south? To Cyrodiil? To the Imperial City, maybe?"

"I don't know. But they're a small group, we do know that. That's how they moved in place without our notice. The closest Imperial reinforcements are at Helgen."

"Then you ride to Helgen and you look." A thick finger jabbed the map. "There's a Stormcloak camp here if you need more men." He looked at the steward. "We'll send our fastest riders, fan out. We'll find him."

"Aye," Jorleif said staunchly. "We'll find him."

And unspoken words echoed in all their heads. If Ulfric dies, the rebellion dies with him.

* * *

Ancano stretched out his long legs and took another sip of the cat's piss the locals called wine. He'd been prepared for hostility from the Nords in this rustic little tavern. Whiterun Hold might technically be neutral but no Altmer could expect a welcome anywhere in Skyrim, with the dubious exception of Solitude. The Great War was still too fresh in Nords' minds, particularly with Jarl Ulfric stirring the pot so nicely. So he'd expected hostility. He hadn't expected indifference . He certainly hadn't expected to be ignored.

First Emissary Elenwen had been clear in her orders. She was so angry that sparks practically flew from her eyes, but her voice had been cold and meticulous as she ticked off his assignments. She'd given him two justiciars and a squad of crack soldiers. All Thalmor, of course. "Find a deserted farm. There should be plenty to choose from," she had said. "And keep your men out of sight. Let them rest up while you ride into Riverwood. Hire half a dozen likely looking Nords from the tavern."

"Damn that Tullius," she said, interrupting herself. They were all exhausted from their wild ride down from Solitude. "Thinks he's going to pull a fast one on me, does he? We've got to get Ulfric out of his hands. What's he going to do with him?" Ancano had shrugged. He'd been fortunate to even hear of Tullius's daring raid. He was going to owe his brother much for that tidbit of information, a debt Estormo would be sure to collect at some inconvenient time.

"Maybe he will present him to the emperor," Ancano said.

"Like a cat dragging a fat skeever to his master? Perhaps. Or perhaps he will take him to Solitude to stand trial. We can allow neither of those scenarios to happen. I've got a man in Helgen Keep, one of the interrogation team."

Ancano battled amusement to keep his face still. Interrogation team, was it? She always used pretty words to gloss over her messy little hobby. With bribes and threats, she had created a web of 'interrogators' all across Skyrim.

"There's a cave that runs under Helgen Keep and right into the prisons," she continued. "I'll arrange to have the gates unlocked. Flash your gold around the tavern and hire some men. Dress them in Stormcloak uniforms—my contact has plenty. He'll leave them at the entrance to the cave. I've got a bit of a map here. It shouldn't be hard to find from Riverwood. Slip into the jail and take the jarl right out through the cave. Take any of his men as well. The quickest way to break Ulfric is to break his men in front of him."

"You should know," Ancano said. They both laughed.

"I can't wait to have him in my hands again. He won't have forgotten me, I can promise you that." She smirked. "Circle around Riverwood like you're heading west. Have the justiciars waiting on the road, out of sight. We'll take Ulfric to Northwatch Keep and decide what to do from there. Are your orders clear?"

"They are," Ancano said.

"I'll go distract Tullius. It's extremely important that you are not identified as a Thalmor agent. I cannot stress that enough. Tullius must not, absolutely must not know that we are behind Ulfric's escape."

"He has his suspicions. His actions these last few days show that."

"Of course he has his suspicions. He's not a complete fool. It is proof that he lacks and we must give him none. I mean it, Ancano. Succeed and I promise you a promotion and a command of your own. Fail? I'll find you the coldest dreariest posting in Skyrim. You'll spend the dregs of what was a promising career, freezing your ears off. But you won't fail. Will you?"

"I won't fail."

But nothing had gone well. Deep in Falkreath Hold, they'd gotten lost. Lost! All these back roads looked the same, winding up mountainsides, switching back and forth until you lost all sense of direction. And not a crossroad marked. Luckily they stumbled across some hunters who set them on the proper path. We should have offered them gold, Ancano thought in hindsight. The torture took way too long. He just didn't have Elenwen's touch. Not yet, anyway. After all, he'd spent the Great War on the front lines as a battle mage, not in safe obscurity as an interrogator like the First Emissary.

The hunters had known of a deserted horse farm. So they were able to stable their horses and rest them properly. Ancano had set aside his splendid Thalmor robes in favor of scruffy leather armor, suitable for a mercenary down on his luck. They were taken, in fact, from the corpse of the tallest hunter.

But when he rode past the Guardian Stones, one of the features on Elenwen's map, he detoured up the hill to find the secret entrance. It was hardly secret. The trail led right to it. He stepped inside and almost immediately found the cache of Stormcloak uniforms. Elenwen's attention to detail never ceased to impress. No weapons although it was quite possible his hirelings would bring their own. He was going to be alone with these farmers, these superstitious prejudiced Nords, and having them armed at his back might not be a good thing. But he had his magic, and Nords feared magic. He'd be fine.

The cave smelled like a bear cave and sure enough, it was one. Ancano paralyzed the big sow with a spell and then roasted her and her cubs. There's one problem solved, he thought. Now all I need is some greedy Nord lackeys.

But the tavern was deserted. No customers, no innkeeper, just a sleepy bartender who seemed strangely reluctant to gossip, even after Ancano had left a generous tip.

"It's quiet now," the man said. "Wait till later. Most of the villagers stop in for a drink after supper. They'll be here."

And so Ancano waited.

* * *

There was yet another party at Mistveil Keep. Harrald had made it abundantly clear that Saerlund should keep his disgraced self out of view, particularly at meal times and most particularly, when guests were expected. But Harrald wasn't Jarl of the Rift just yet. So Saerlund made sure he was present at every meal, morning, noon and night. He never spoke, he never did anything disruptive, but he was always there.

The serving staff had silently but firmly moved his seat from the family end of the large dining table to the far end where the retainers ate. That suited him just fine. He could look across the expanse of the dining room where his mother held court. His mother would look in his direction from time to time but her eyes never met his. They brushed over him light as butterflies, as if he didn't exist.

He rarely ate with much appetite these days. But then, neither did she.

He usually sat next to Wylandriah in what he had come to think of as the Misfit corner. She was late, as usual, but she smiled at Saerlund as she took her seat. She patted her pocket and pulled out the small journal he had given her to use as a memory aid.

"Such a thoughtful gift," she beamed. She kept her hood up, as always. She was sensitive about her ears. He thought that was silly.

"There are a lot of elves in Riften," he'd told her once.

"There are a lot of Dunmer," she corrected. "And they tend to keep to themselves. Of Bosmer, there are few. There's Anuriel. Feh." One of the things Saerlund appreciated about Wylandriah was that she shared his distrust of his mother's steward. "It was different at the college, but here, it just seems better to keep a low profile."

"Keep a low profile? How can you advise my mother if you are keeping a low profile?"

"She doesn't want advice."

"That doesn't mean she doesn't need it."

Wylandriah had given him a look.

"Your experiments going well?" he asked politely.

"Oh, indeed they are, that's why I'm just a bit late." And she launched into a complicated monologue that he could not follow at all. She was either crazy or brilliant, Saerlund wasn't sure. Or possibly both, they weren't mutually exclusive. She spent most of her time holed up in her workroom, shunned by both the guards and the court. But she had a vast Dwemer library and she let him borrow. Saerlund had been fascinated by the Dwemer since childhood but her knowledge far outstripped his.

Suddenly Wylandriah cocked her head and Saerlund became aware of the raised voices at the end of the table, where Maven Black-Briar sat in the seat of honor next to his mother.

"I specifically asked for the Firebrand wine," Maven told the cringing servant. "Surely you don't expect me to believe there is not a single bottle in your cellar."

Saerlund rolled his eyes. "Listen to her, giving orders like she's in some common tavern instead of sitting at the jarl's table." He kept his voice to a whisper. "And look at them all, bowing and scraping to her. Even mother! It's sickening."

He had missed part of the conversation but it was impossible to miss Maven's loud demands.

"A problem in the cellar? Don't be ridiculous." The servant cringed even lower. Maven turned to the jarl. "Your people are afraid of the cellar? What superstitious nonsense is this?"

"I have no idea," Laila said.

"Come, we will solve this problem once and for all."

Right in the middle of the meal, Maven rose and swept out towards the kitchen. "Come, Laila."

The jarl meekly followed her.

Saerlund fumed. "Did you see that? She's giving orders to my mother! And my mother is following them!" He turned to Wylandriah and his outrage turned to concern. "What is it? Have you taken ill?"

"The cellars—my experiment is in the cellars."

"Which one? Not the spiders, I hope. My mother is deathly afraid of spiders."

A penetrating scream had them both out of their chairs. That answers that, Saerlund thought. He and Wylandriah ran to the cellars. They found the jarl by the stairway, white-faced and trembling.

"It was as large as a housecat," she moaned. Wylandriah ran forward just as Maven finished stomping the spider to goo.

"Don't be such a little fool, Laila," Maven said. "It's just a spider. A woman of power should never show fear. Force is how we solve problems. Now where is that wine?"

"You killed my spider!" Wylandriah said. "It was just a baby." Saerlund was startled to see tears in the mage's eyes. Maven turned on her.

"Do you mean to tell me this creature was yours? Some sort of pet? Are there more of them?"

Wylandriah nodded. Laila bolted for the dining room.

"Get every one of these creatures out of the palace _tonight_ or the jarl is going to be looking for a new court mage as well as an exterminator." She swept out of the cellar, a bottle of wine in each hand.

"What am I going to do?" Wylandriah moaned. Saerlund looked at the spider's carcass. This was a baby? It was huge! How large was its mother, he wondered uneasily. "They like it here," the mage continued. "It's cool and dark. The perfect environment."

"Would a cave do?"

"A cave would be perfect but there's no time to find one. She said I had to get them out tonight. Tonight! And there are so many to move. It's impossible."

There were _many_ of them? Saerlund stared. No wonder the servants wouldn't go into the cellar. What had she been thinking?

"The mountains in this area are riddled with caves," he said. "You know that years ago, the people rose up against the jarl and burned him alive in his palace, right? That's why Mistveil Palace was built of stone. And that's why there's a secret escape tunnel leading out to one of these caves. I can show you the entrance but you have to be careful not to be seen using it. Only the family is supposed to know about it.

She gave him an incredibly grateful look. "And will you help me move all my babies? And the eggs?"

"Eggs?" He supposed he could borrow the groundskeeper's wheelbarrow. He sighed. Although he didn't share his mother's fear of spiders, he couldn't exactly say he was fond of the things. "Of course. But how are we going to move the babies?"

"They'll follow me, of course. They're quite intelligent, you know."

"Stendarr's Mercy. Why spiders, Wylandriah? Why so many spiders?"

"It is for the good of the city, you know," she said earnestly. "I'm working on a new defense system."

"With spiders?"

"The Dwemer used spiders to defend their strongholds."

"Those were constructs, Wylandriah. Machines."

"Yes, but building constructs is a lost art. And anyway, living creatures are better. They reproduce! And they can be trained!" She gave him one of her gentle, demented smiles. "And they're just so adorable. You'll see."

* * *

The days in Last Seed were long and there was still plenty of daylight left when Thorald approached Riverwood. Thorald's horse pricked up her ears in warning, so the voice from the bushes didn't take him by complete surprise.

"Hey. You. Stormcloak."

Thorald wasn't in uniform. "Who, me?"

"If you say you're not a Stormcloak, you're a big fat liar." A boy stepped out onto the road. "I know who you are. You're Thorald Gray-Mane."

"And do I know you?"

"Yep. You know my uncle Ralof."

"You one of Gerdur's brats?"

The boy grinned. "Yep. I'm Frodnar."

"The little trickster. I remember you. What are you doing out here?"

"Watching for Imperials. And watching for you, or someone like you. You here to save my uncle? And Jarl Ulfric?"

"What do you know about that?" he asked sharply.

"Just that they're in Helgen and ma's about to lose her mind." He gave Thorald a worried look. "You're going to do something, right? Where's your men? I hope you brought a lot. Ma's trying to get folks organized. Go the back way, that path up there. I'll put your horse somewhere safe."

Thorald had visited Ralof's sister Gerdur in happier times. Gerdur may not have lost her mind but she was clearly upset and distracted with worry. Her husband Hod seemed calm but his brows were drawn down in an uncharacteristic frown. A couple of local people Thorald didn't know sat at Gerdur's dinner table.

"Oh, Thorald, thank Talos you're here," she said when he entered the cottage.

"Frodnar told me you have news of Ulfric."

Gerdur had been in Helgen on business. In a confused gabble, she told of several wagon loads of Stormcloak prisoners, arriving in town under Imperial escort. They were met at the fortress gate by General Tullius himself, with some witch-elf beside him. She saw her brother on one of the carts, next to Ulfric. The jarl had been gagged!

"They're afraid of his Shout," Gerdur said.

"They should be," Hod replied. "And then there's this elf, here in town. Just showed up. Been sitting in the inn all afternoon. Said he was looking to hire some local men for a quick job. Strange timing, to put it mildly."

"What kind of job?" Thorald asked. No one was sure. "But who is he?"

The cottage door opened. Every hand went to a weapon.

"He's a Thalmor spy," the eavesdropping newcomer said. She walked into the suddenly silent room, a bow on her back and a sword by her side, with her hair braided back and a dangerous look in her eye.

"Delphine?" Gerdur asked. Thorald blinked. This was the Sleeping Giant's frumpy innkeeper?

"I'm not sure what he wants," Delphine continued. "But he has a squad of Thalmor troops hidden on the old horse farm. I just scouted them out. There are two justiciars and at least eight other soldiers. They're up to something."

Gerdur turned to Thorald. "What are we going to do? There's that old tunnel that runs under the keep but it's been locked up for years. Even if we could break down the gate, we don't know where it goes."

Thorald's brain had been churning as fast as it could. "Gerdur, can you get me ink and paper?" He gave Delphine a long look, trying to fit this new competence to the innkeeper he thought he knew. Could he trust her? She wasn't even a Nord. He looked over at Hod, who gave him a tiny shiver of a wink. So. He would trust her.

He wrote his orders quickly. "There's a Stormcloak camp not far from here."

"I know where it is," Hod said.

"I'm going to send for reinforcements now. Tonight." And by Ysmir's Beard, I hope they're competent, sober, and above all present. Sometimes these camps were mere skeletons, emptied out either by injury, desertion or boredom. "I'll have them assemble—" He gave Hod a helpless look. "Where? Not here in town."

"I know a place. I'll take care of it," Hod said. "I'll take the note myself."

"Good. I'm going to meet this elf, see what he wants."

"He's a Thalmor spy," Delphine said.

"But he's one elf. Alone. We need to know why he's here." He looked at Delphine. "Do you think you can keep an eye on the Thalmor camp?"

"I'll manage," she said drily.

* * *

Ancano had an early supper at the tavern. The food was a good match for the wine, unfortunately. He felt the beginning of an epic case of indigestion develop when the tavern door finally opened and a human walked in. From what Ancano could see, this fellow was the very image of bucolic Nord-hood. His shoulders were wide, his hips narrow, and his hair was long and blond with the requisite braids. He was dirty, as if he had just come in from the fields. Instead of the ubiquitous axe he had a big sword in a back harness. His only real shortcoming was his stunted beard.

Now if only he has some brothers or friends, I'm in business, Ancano thought.

He sidled up to the bar as the Nord bickered with the bartender.

"Give me a bottle of mead," the stranger said. "No offense but that ale smells a bit off."

"Perhaps you'd allow me to buy," Ancano said smoothly. The stranger turned to him and made an elaborate double-take as his eyes took in his elegant Altmer features.

"Well, that's mighty kindly of ye," the stranger drawled. "Unexpected but kindly."

"Unexpected because of my race? The war's been over a long time, my friend. Bygones be bygones and all that. Do you live around here?"

"Nearby," the stranger said, with a vague wave of his hand. Ancano didn't ask his name. This business was best conducted with no names mentioned.

"As you may have guessed, I am not local to these parts. I find myself in need of some hired help. I need five or six men to pick something up and deliver it to me at a safe location."

"Must be a pretty big package if you need six men."

"This is an _important _delivery," Ancano said. He leaned forward. "And this must be handled with discretion. Absolute discretion. I'm willing to pay well for that."

"Sounds a bit under-handed, like," the stranger said. His brows rose, but not in outrage, more in polite interest. A venal interest, Ancano hoped.

"Some might think so," Ancano said smoothly.

"We stealing something?"

"Not stealing, no. Perhaps a better word is 'liberating'." And he set a stack of septims on the table. The stranger's eyes lit up. "There is a bit of deception involved, I admit. Are you interested?"

"Might be, if you pay as well as you say. Work's been slow for me and my mates, that's a fact. We could use a bit of gold in our pocket. What is it you want done?"

Ancano looked around. The tavern was still deserted and the bartender was safely out of earshot. "Would you and your mates be willing to put on Stormcloak uniforms?"

"Aww, you're a recruiter? Should have said so from the get-go. If I wanted to join up, I'd have done it already."

"I'm not a recruiter. It would just be for show. A disguise, as it were."

"I don't know," the man said. He eyed the septims significantly. "You can get in trouble, pretending to be what you're not." Ancano set down another stack of septims. And another. "But," the Nord said. "I guess if it was just for show there'd be no real harm in it."

"None of you will have to fight, I promise."

"So what's the job?"

Ancano took a breath. This was it. He set down another stack of septims. "There's a secret passage that runs under Helgen Keep."

"It ain't a secret," the stranger said flatly. "Everyone knows about the old tunnels. They're locked up."

More than ever Ancano was convinced he had found the right man for the job. "They are unlocked now. I need you to go in and bring out some friends of mine. The cells are opened, there will be no guards. Everything has been arranged."

"Why don't they just walk out then?"

"Er, they need a guide. When they see your uniforms, they'll know you're the ones."

"So your friends are Stormcloaks?"

"Not all Altmer support the Thalmor, you know." He jingled his coin purse. "Some of us are independent."

"So, you're a mercenary? You're, like, a jail breaker? For hire?"

"You have a fine grasp of the job." He eyed the Nord, whose eyes were on the gold. "The gold on the table is a down payment. Bring my friends out safely and I'll make you rich."

"When do we do this?"

"Tomorrow morning, at dawn."

"How do I know who to break out?"

"My man inside will bring them to you. He'll be wearing an Imperial uniform. Don't let that bother you. He's in on this."

"Your friends, they're expecting us?"

"No." Ancano thought. There could be awkward questions. This had to go off smoothly and above all, swiftly. "Tell them that Galmar Stone-Fist sent you."

"Galmar Stone-Fist?" The stranger stumbled over the name. Ignorant fool, he didn't even know the name of the Stormcloaks' general?

"Yes, tell them that. I'll explain everything when we meet at the rendezvous."

"Will do." With a strange grin, his new hireling pocketed the gold on the table and they went over the details.

"You do this job for me," Ancano said as they parted, "You'll be a proper little hero, and that's a fact." The stranger's eyes flashed. I've got him, Ancano thought smugly. No Nord can resist the lure of heroism.


	8. Bad to Worse

_**Author's Note**__: Many thanks to those of you who have read, followed or 'favorited' this story, with special appreciation for my first reviewer, BarnabusAmbrosiusIII—your encouragement means a lot to me_!

**8: Bad to Worse**

Thorald knew he should stop pacing but his nerves sizzled like fat on a fire. The entire Stormcloak camp had arrived, quicker than he had hoped. With the efficiency of long practice, they had thrown together a hidden bivouac near the old mine, overlooking the road to Riverwood. Fifteen men and women. They looked well enough. They were sober (for the most part) and they were anxious. Rumors of trouble had spread as fast as thought but the truth—that their jarl was imprisoned in Helgen and that the Thalmor sought to take him—shook and dismayed them.

"Can't we go in and get him out of there tonight?" asked one of the soldiers. And of course Thorald had been thinking about that.

"I don't know if the gate will be unlocked before dawn," he said. "And I don't know where in the keep he is being held. If we go in early, we might spoil everything."

"What do the witch-elves want with Jarl Ulfric?" their commander had asked. And Thorald had no answer. This might all be a trap, an elaborate trap, but they had no choice but to play along.

On their terms, of course, as well as they could manage.

"The elf that hired me has gone up to his room at the inn. Sleeping, as far as we know. His room is dark and he hasn't left it. He said he would meet me and the others at the Guardian Stones, at dawn."

"I think we should hit the Thalmor camp tonight," the commander said. His name was Joric. Like Thorald, he was too young to have seen service in the Great War, and eager to make a name for himself in this one. He and Thorald had struck up an instant rapport. "We'll catch them in their bedrolls and wipe them all out. Avoid any complications later."

"I agree," Thorald said. It was risky, risky and dangerous, but did they dare leave the Thalmor at their back? "Leave me a few steady men in plain clothes for tomorrow. If you come across a Breton woman in leather armor, she's with us. She's local and the source of the information we have on the Thalmor. I think she's gone back to the farm." Delphine had never returned from her scouting trip. Which was worrisome—if Delphine had been caught, the Thalmor camp would be ready and alert.

"We'll keep an eye out for her. You should get some rest, Thorald. The sun will be here before you know it."

"I will," he lied.

"Here, have some mead. Relax a bit."

"Sure."

The commander bustled out to ready his troops. Thorald eyed the bottle of mead he'd left with loathing. He didn't want mead. What he really wanted right now, what would relax him more than anything, was a mug of warm milk, like his ma used to make him when he had nightmares. But this nightmare wasn't going to be so easily vanquished. He sighed and settled down to some serious worrying.

* * *

Maven's desk was littered with letters. She had quill in hand, writing when Anuriel entered her study. Busy as she was, Maven rarely entrusted her correspondence to a scribe.

"What's the matter?" Anuriel asked. Maven's abrupt summons had yanked her out of the middle of a court session. She'd been forced to tell the jarl that she was ill. Laila dismissed her with a look that promised future retribution. The jarl would never cross Maven in any way but her own steward did not share that protection.

"Did you bring it?" Maven snapped. Her face was pink with wrath.

"Of course, Lady Black-Briar." Maven snatched the jarl's seal from her out-stretched hand. "But why—"

"Hush." Anuriel stood, impatient and alarmed, as Maven meticulously finished writing her letter. She used the jarl's seal with a practiced hand. "There," she said. "The courier is waiting in the Bee and Barb. See that he delivers this immediately."

"What has happened?" Anuriel asked. Maven sat with rigid posture. Her eyes practically blazed as she pointed at the three opened letters on the desk. She shoved them towards Anuriel. The first was from Maven's son, Hemming. The second was official, from the steward of Whiterun hold.

"He's failed me. That damned fool, I should have known. And he's dragged Ingun into that mess. Ingun! I specifically told him to take Sibbi."

"Who's failed? Not Hemming?"

"Yes, Hemming. My son brags to all who will listen that he is a mighty warrior. And he is routed by skeevers. Skeevers! And my poor Ingun was captured by a madman!"

Anuriel skimmed rapidly the first letter, in Hemming's large bold handwriting. "It sounds like these were no ordinary skeevers," she said.

"According to Hemming, they were monstrous." Maven snorted. "He always exaggerated, even as a little boy. That damned Sabjorn has the effrontery to press charges against my children! They were taken to the Whiterun prison. Black-Briars in prison!"

"On what charge?"

"How dare he!"

Maven was caught up in her anger so Anuriel read the second letter. "Ah, I see. They caught Ingun with the poison. They charged her and Hemming with trespassing, sabotage and malicious mischief. Sabotage? Apparently there was some suggestion that she was working with that mad mage they killed in the cave?"

"Ridiculous. And I've had a damned impertinent letter from Kodlak Whitemane."

"He's the Harbinger of the Companions."

"I know exactly who he is," Maven snapped. "My incompetent son hired the Companions to rescue Ingun from the mage. Bad enough that he put her in danger in the first place, now he can't even clean up his own mess? And Kodlak says he should have been warned that the city guard had been called. He should have been warned Ingun was involved in illegal acts. How dare he take a high tone with me?"

"Who called the guard?"

"That layabout Sabjorn, of course. Have you got to the good part?"

Anuriel read faster. Divines, no! The Imperial she'd hired, Mallus Maccius, had been induced to testify against them. He told the guard that the skeevers had been deliberately let into the meadery.

"Don't worry," Maven said bitterly. "I can't touch Sabjorn—yet—but this hireling of yours won't show up in court. I've already sent Maul with a message to Astrid."

Anuriel gave a nervous swallow. She was calling in the Dark Brotherhood? For an assassination? For what amounted to little more than criminal trespassing? Wasn't that a bit extreme?

"And I'll get Hemming and Ingun released right away." She handed her letter to Anuriel. It was addressed to the jarl of Whiterun.

"The seal?" Anuriel prompted. If Jarl Laila saw her official seal was missing, that would be embarrassing, to say the least. Maven pushed it across the desk to her.

"I can't stand ineptitude," Maven said. "When Hemming slinks back, we will have words, believe me."

Anuriel believed her. And I hope I'm not here when it happens, she thought.

* * *

Hod guided Joric and his men to the abandoned horse farm where the Thalmor were said to be hiding. Only one moon was up but Secunda was close to full and there was plenty of light. They had been smelling smoke for some time but it wasn't until they rounded the side of the mountain that they saw the flames.

"That's the farmhouse," Hod whispered. "Or it was." The roof had fallen in and the fire itself had begun to die down.

They found the body of the first sentry under a tree near the lane leading to the farm. The elf had an arrow through her neck. The second sentry lay in the shadow of the barn, in a pool of his own blood. He'd been shot in the face.

"There's eleven horses in the barn, sir," one of the Stormcloaks whispered. Joric had his men fan out and search the yard and outbuildings. Joric and Hod quietly approached the house.

"Nothing alive in there," Hod said. "And I don't think anyone got out."

"Why do you say that?"

"Do you see? Someone wedged the doors shut. From the outside."

In the back, one of the elves had tried to escape through a window. He also had an arrow in the face.

"I'm seeing a pattern here," Joric said, with a snort of black humor. "But how did this fire get started?"

"It was set," Hod said.

"I expect you're right. It must have caught mighty quick though. Maybe magic?"

"Maybe," Hod said. Or maybe not. He had sharp eyes. He'd noticed three empty casks of Cyrodiil brandy under the porch. And he could think of only one person in Riverwood with access to that much highly flammable liquor. But maybe it was best not to point that out. Let Sleeping Giants lie, so to speak. If no one wanted to claim credit for this massacre, there was no surprise in that. No one would want to bring Thalmor retribution on their friends, their business, or their village. And was there any real proof these were Thalmor? Perhaps they were bandits. Perhaps they were horse thieves. Yes. Should anyone come asking, that's what he'd say. They must have been horse thieves, for here were the horses to prove it.

"When the embers cool, we'll go in and count the bodies," Joric said. "Make sure there are no survivors in the cellar. But I'm thinking our little Thalmor problem has been taken care of. Let's hope Thorald's job is as easy as ours was."

* * *

Thorald met the elf at the Guardian Stones as planned.

"Only five of you?" the elf asked. Joric and his men had yet to return from the farmhouse but Hod had come in just an hour earlier, smelling of smoke and smiling with victory. Thorald saw no sign that the elf was aware that his camp had been incinerated.

The elf led them uphill and into the cave.

"Your uniforms are here. Put them on." The uniforms were neither clean nor unstained. We're wearing dead men's clothes, Thorald thought sourly. "Don't slouch. Try to look like soldiers," the elf said.

"We'll try," Thorald said. The elf gave him a sharp look.

"I'll meet you here," he said. "I absolutely cannot be seen in the keep. Go in, bring them out, and collect your pay. It's that simple."

Neither Thorald nor the others had ever been through this tunnel, which was a confusing mix of caves and natural waterways, reshaped and widened in places by pickaxe. Thorald could see why one would build a fortress over a protected water supply, convenient in time of siege, with a handy escape route, should the fortress fall. Of course, this was a weakness as well, hence the heavy set of gates. Thorald's blood went cold when he saw they were closed but a push proved that they were indeed unlocked. Talos look over us all, he prayed.

The rusty hinges squealed and groaned. "Hasn't been opened since the Third Age," one fellow whispered but Thorald forced it open wide enough for them to slip through. And then they were in the keep proper.

Or improper, Thorald thought with disapproval as they passed dark stinking cells, thankfully empty, and entered what could only be the torture room. Thorald eyed the instruments and devices, the braziers and the pincers, and shuddered. Dead bodies rotted in hanging cages. It smelled worse than the back room of the Hall of the Dead. When a big man in Imperial armor burst into the room, Thorald almost gutted him right there.

He's a Nord, Thorald realized. That's the last outrage—a Nord torturing Stormcloaks! His own countrymen!

The torturer showed no fear at the sight of five armed invaders. He was angry and upset.

"You're late!"

"We're right on time," Thorald said.

"You're too late! They're gone!"

"What do you mean?" Thorald asked, with dread's bony hand clutching his heart. "Where's Ulfric?"

"General Tullius came in before dawn and said he was going to execute the prisoners right away. Now. A day early. He brought his own headsman!"

"What? Where is Ulfric?"

"That's what I'm telling you! He's out in the yard now! You're too late!"

"Where is he?" Thorald grabbed the torturer's arm and gave him a hard shake. "Think, man. Where would they take him?"

The torturer blinked. "He's in the side yard by the tower," he said. "Tullius sent the soldiers off to the practice ground. Wanted this to be private, just the priestess and a few witnesses, not the whole keep. He said a jarl should die with some dignity, or the other jarls would kick up a fuss."

I'll panic later, Thorald promised himself. But first—

The torturer was still gabbling. "Elenwen is going to have my balls for this. Yours, too! She'll say I should have stopped him. How? It was _General Tullius_! I'm supposed to tell him he can't have his own prisoners?"

Thorald barely took this in. He looked around, saw a hammer on one of the tables. Probably used for breaking kneecaps, he thought grimly. It felt good in his hand when he picked it up. It felt better when he bashed in the torturer's skull. The man dropped with a thud.

"At least his balls are safe," one of the soldiers said. "Not so sure about ours. What are we going to do?" The four men stared at Thorald as if he could pull a miracle out of his tunic.

Thorald had moved through panic and come out the other side—to desperation. "Get some leather strips and make it look like your hands are bound," Thorald said. "You're going to have to hide your weapons." He horsed the torturer's cuirass off his dead body. "I'm going to take you out to get executed."

"Now wait just a moment," one soldier said. But the others responded to the manic look in Thorald's eyes.

"A surprise attack?" a quicker-witted soldier asked. "Five of us against the whole keep?"

Another one laughed. "That will surprise them, all right."

"Talos brought us here for a reason," Thorald said with more confidence than he felt. "We will save Jarl Ulfric or join him in Sovngarde." He saw they were afraid. So was he. But he saw that they were with him. And that gave him heart.

"Have your knives hidden in your hands," he said. "If you can find a way to hide another weapon, do so, but you must appear to be unarmed." Once he'd put on the torturer's armor, he took the man's sword belt and his shoddy Imperial sword. "When we get in the yard, cut everyone loose as fast as you can. It will be a few more than five against the keep. I hope. Free the jarl first. Whichever one of you cuts him loose, run him here, quickly. Get him out through the tunnel and make sure you kill that witch-elf on your way out. The rest of us will slow pursuit as best we can. Are you with me?"

Thorald got a ragged chorus of "Aye." He pretended not to hear the man who'd said, "We're so dead."

* * *

Thorald led his fake prisoners out of the dungeon and into one of the keep's side towers. He had never been in the fortress before. Helgen was part of Falkreath hold and a strategic target, should Whiterun ever abandon neutrality and declare for the Empire. Stormcloaks held the Pale on Whiterun's north border. When they took Helgen, the squeeze would begin and Balgruuf would have a hard decision, to send troops to hold the defenseless Riverwood or to have his hold eaten up, one bite at a time.

Or so Galmar Stone-Fist said. The general had a diagram of Helgen's Keep. Thorald had seen it.

He couldn't remember a damned thing. Why hadn't he paid more attention?

His mind seethed with random thoughts, anything to keep the terror out.

Why am I leading? I should have made one of the others put on this damnably skimpy armor. Cyrodiil must be a warm place. The Imperial should be last—no, there should be two of us, one ahead and one behind. This doesn't look right, what was I thinking? I want to die in Stormcloak colors, not in this. How do the Imperials go to battle, with nothing between the world and their loincloth but a split leather skirt? So short that my knees are showing! It takes more guts to be an Imperial than I thought. He knew Jarl Ulfric and General Galmar had fought for the Empire during the Great War. He tried to picture them in skimpy Legionnaire armor. His mind boggled.

He remembered that the torturer mentioned Elenwen. Could he have possibly meant the Thalmor ambassador? How was she involved in all this? Why? And were those her soldiers at the farmhouse? If fortune favors us, she lies dead there now with her fellow elves. But no, the torturer said she was here. At the keep.

They walked through the kitchen and through the barracks and they hadn't seen a single guard. They're all outside, Thorald thought sourly. Watching the show. The heavy tower door stood open and he stepped outside. The sun was low in the sky. It felt like they'd been in the keep for hours but it was not long past dawn.

"Which way do we go?" one of the Stormcloaks whispered. Thorald looked around wildly. And then he heard it, a heavy dull sound, a butcher's sound. An axe.

"Talos, no," one of the men said. The sound had come from the left. They heard shouts of anger and protest.

"That way," Thorald said.

He ran and the others trotted beside him. They burst through an archway and Thorald signaled them to stop, and then waved for them to fan out. They hadn't been noticed yet for all eyes were on the body at the chopping block.

Blood ran over the cobbles and dragged at the eye. You cut off a man's head and all his blood runs out. The headsman had stood in the right place to not get spattered. Must be good at his job, Thorald thought inanely. He forced himself to look at the head but he couldn't see it. It was in a basket, a nice large basket, with room for plenty more heads.

But it wasn't Ulfric, Thorald thought with relief. The dead man wasn't Ulfric for Ulfric was alive. He stood alone, hands bound and a gag in his mouth. Thorald wasn't close enough to see his expression but his body radiated outrage. They will make him watch his men die first, he thought. Is this sadism or some strange kind of respect, he wondered.

The executioner kicked the dead body out of the way. A priestess of Arkay stood behind him. She held her hand over her eyes and looked like she was trying not to be sick.

"Next prisoner," an Imperial officer cried. She pointed at Ralof.

Ralof took a step towards the jarl.

"Jarl Ulfric," he said. "It has been an honor."

I have to stop this now, Thorald thought. I have to get their attention so the others can be freed. He swallowed twice and stepped forward.

"General Tullius, sir!" he called out. "I have something to report!"

No matter what else went wrong, Thorald's voice had never failed him. It didn't fail him now. His words rang out strong and clear and, as he hoped, all heads turned toward him. The general glared.

"This had better be damned important, soldier."

Thorald's eyes shifted rapidly back and forth, trying to take in everything. One of his men sidled towards Ulfric. Good, he thought. They remember the plan, they haven't frozen up. Cut him loose, he thought, get him out of here. "Er," he said. His mind was blank. "I am here to report a plot. Yes. A plot against you, sir." Don't mention Ulfric, he told himself frantically, or everyone will look at him. "There's a Thalmor plot, sir! The ambassador has—has bribed one of us, sir. We caught him." He looked frantically around. Where was Elenwen? The torturer had said she was here.

There were no elves in the courtyard. No elves at all.

"Come here, soldier," the general said. Thorald swallowed and stepped forward. Well, the good news is, everyone's looking at me and not at Ulfric, he thought. The bad news is, everyone is looking at me and my mind is totally blank. He would have tried a smile but his face felt numb.

There was a strange roaring sound off in the distance.

"What was that?" one of the legionnaires asked. Heads swiveled to look but not the general's. His attention was squarely on Thorald.

"Name and rank, soldier," Tullius snapped.

I can't give my real name, it will come back on my clan. For a wild moment, he thought of saying he was Jon Battle-Born.

"You can call me Ysgramor," he said at random. "Just joined up, sir."

"No wonder I don't know your face," the general said. "Well, recruit, let me tell you how this works. We have a chain of command in this army. You have a superior officer. And so do I. I report to the emperor, son. Not to the Thalmor ambassador. And not to you. If you have a problem, you report it to your superior officer, who will bring it to my attention if warranted. If you ever, and I mean _ever _interrupt me for anything less than real and immediate danger—"

There was another roar. It was closer. But the general's brows had drawn down in suspicion. "What are these men doing—guards! To me! Secure the jarl!"

Thorald drew his sword. I should kill the general now, he thought. Wouldn't that stop the war? Or at least hinder it severely? But he whirled towards Ralof and cut him free. "Go to Ulfric!" he shouted.

Behind him the general yelled, "Don't let him get that gag off." One of his officers called for archers. Ralof kicked the headsman square in his fat gut and snatched the executioner's axe from his loosened grip.

"Where are we going?" Ralof shouted. The legionnaires that had begun to rush towards them paused beyond the reach of the long axe.

"Back to the prison. There's a tunnel out," Thorald said. One of the Stormcloaks had grabbed Ulfric's arm to lead him in the right direction. And then the man fell, with an arrow in his back. "That way," Thorald shouted. He gave Ralof a shove. Ulfric stooped and grabbed the knife from the fallen soldier's hand. More arrows thudded the ground around them. Thorald felt the muscles in his back tighten up in anticipation. He wished he had his wolf armor. This thin leather armor won't stop an arrow, he thought. Might slow it down a little, make it hurt more.

They were still out in the open and the door to the tower seemed impossibly far away. We're not going to make it, Thorald realized. Over the yelling he heard Tullius's voice ring out, demanding reinforcements. The whole garrison was in the practice yard nearby. Another Stormcloak fell, his thigh pierced and bleeding in spurts. Some of the archers had moved up to the walls and their arrows rained down in silent destruction and he saw they were being herded. A dozen men in Falkreath's colors galloped through an arch ahead of them. Thorald's lips drew back in fury. They had never had much of a chance but to fail now—no, Talos, no!

A shadow passed over him. A huge shadow. And a bellow that knocked him and the Falkreath soldiers to the ground. The ground shook when the—the thing—landed on the wall behind them. There was another bellow and the archers screamed. Briefly. Thorald felt the roar enter him like a physical blow, a blow that struck from the inside first, a blow that originated in his heart and blew outwards to make his entire body vibrate. He had never felt, never even imagined, anything like it.

"What in Oblivion is that?" he heard Tullius holler. It was fairly obvious what it was. Everyone stared at the wall, where the thing perched. It was black, it was huge, with wings and teeth and claws and it was, without any shadow of a doubt, as impossible as it might seem—

It was a dragon.

Thorald scrambled to his feet. As distractions went, this one definitely topped his. The surviving archers bent their light Imperial bows but their arrows bounced off the dragon's black hide. It was like plate armor, Thorald thought and he wondered if a crossbow would pierce it.

"More archers," Tullius yelled. "Call the battle mages. Kill that thing! Now!"

Time to go, Thorald thought. He looked over at Ralof, who knelt beside the man with the arrow in the thigh. He lay in a huge pool of blood. Ralof shook his head. Dead. Tullius and the soldiers were totally focused on the dragon. The Stormcloaks had completely escaped their attention.

Too bad the same couldn't be said for the dragon.

It let out a blast of fire, hotter than any forge. There were flames and a sizzle and a sickening smell of roasted meat. The archers who had come running at the general's call were incinerated. And then the dragon swooped down and grabbed one of Ulfric's men like a hawk stooping for a rabbit. Bone crunched before the man could even scream. The dragon wheeled overhead, dropped his victim and swooped down again. Thorald, frozen, could see those great alien eyes focus on him.

There was a roar beside him. Ulfric, his eyes wide and furious, Shouted.

The dragon slammed into a wall of force. It fell backward and hit the ground with a crash Thorald could feel through his boots. Thorald was stunned and disoriented. It seemed Ulfric himself was as well. Ralof grabbed them both and pointed to the nearest tower. They ran. The echoes of Ulfric's Shout vibrated through him. Words, Thorald realized. The words Ulfric Shouted rang through his head, clear and distinct. FUS RO DAHh! His lips moved as they silently shaped those devastating words.

As they passed through the doors—shelter at last!—Thorald looked back. The dragon was on its feet. It whipped its head about.

"It seeks us," Ulfric said hoarsely.

"Is that really a dragon?" Ralof said. "Like out of a legend?" Two other Stormcloaks followed him in before he slammed the door behind them. That's all of us that survived? Thorald frowned.

"That legend is about to burn down the keep," Ulfric said. "I hope you have a way out of here."

They heard a bellow of pure rage. And screams, abruptly cut off. Thorald looked frantically around for the stairs down.

"Yes, sir," Thorald said. "Only, it looks like we've gotten into the wrong tower."

A blast of fire blew the door off its hinges. A huge black snout poked its way in. Thorald, frantic with fear, stabbed at the dragon's face. The cheap Imperial blade he'd taken off the torturer's corpse snapped in his hands. For a sickening moment Thorald was taken back to a time in his childhood when another blade broke. The shadow of an old emotion tried to rise in his chest. For one insane heartbeat he stared at the useless hilt in his hand and felt childish tears in his eyes.

But just for a heartbeat. He dropped the hilt and fled. The others had already charged up the circular stone stairway that was the only way out. Thorald followed. The light from the overhead window was blocked for one frightening moment, and then the building shook as the dragon landed on the wall outside. The dragon roared.

Thorald felt the roar in his body—as words! Like Ulfric's Shout, the dragon attacked with words. YOL TOOR SHUL. Fire blasted from the dragon's mouth.

The wall before them exploded in a shower of stones. The men ahead of him reeled back or hit the floor or were knocked off the stairs. Thorald only kept his balance because he'd been the furthest back. Huge talons clawed the opening wider and then the giant snout poked its way in. In a strange and cold curiosity, Thorald met the dragon's alien eyes. There is madness there, he thought. Hatred and fury and most of all, madness. It will destroy us all. For no reason, just because it can, just because it hates us. All of us.

Thorald felt a wind—an impossible wind, a wind he'd felt once before. And then the words—Ulfric's words—rose up in his throat in a searing roaring wave he could neither stem nor control. He Shouted. FUS RO DAH!

The dragon careened backwards off the wall and crashed into the ground. It lay there, stunned.

I'll think about that later, Thorald promised. Now I'm going to run!

None of them spoke. They ran after Thorald, they ran past the dead and the dying, they ran past the burning buildings and they ran as the dragon pulled the fortress down around them. They found the jail. They found the tunnel. They finally stopped to catch their breath once they were deep enough under the ground to feel safe.

Thorald's throat felt strange. Like I've been breathing fire, he thought.

"What happened?" he asked. "Was that a Shout? How did I do that?"

"We'd all like to know," Ralof said. "If you don't have the answers, why do you think we would?" They all turned to the jarl.

"I shouldn't have Shouted," Ulfric said. "Did you see how it reacted? It won't leave a stone standing, looking for us. It will try to kill everyone."

"General Tullius was up there," Ralof said with a trace of satisfaction. "And some of his staff."

"And the Thalmor ambassador," Thorald added.

"No, Elenwen had already left," Ulfric said. "Before you celebrate this as a victory, don't forget, Helgen is a village of Nords under attack by this dragon. And I wouldn't count Tullius dead quite yet. He's a wily old fox. We got out. He may get out as well."

"There's another elf here, waiting at the end of the cave," Thorald warned. "The Thalmor planned this escape, Jarl Ulfric. Maybe Elenwen got away but we can kill this one at least. We've already wiped out his reinforcements."

But when they reached the bear cave that led out to the path, there was no sign of the dragon and the elf was gone without a trace.

Or almost without a trace. Before they reached Riverwood, they were met by the boy Frodnar.

"That elf is gone," he told Thorald bluntly. "Took his horse and left. Didn't pay his bill at the inn."

"Left in a hurry then?"

"Yep. He looked real upset. I followed him and he met someone on the road to Falkreath. Someone on a horse."

"Another elf?"

"Dunno. Whoever it was had a hood on. They headed west. Oh, and Orgnar says to tell you your horse is lame."

"No doubt your elf met Elenwen," Ulfric said. Frodnar stared at his impressive armor.

"You the jarl?" he asked. Thorald frowned but the jarl smiled.

"I'm Ulfric," he said. "Jarl of Windhelm."

"I'm going to fight for you when I get older. When Ma says I can."

"It sounds like you are serving me already," Ulfric said. Frodnar grinned.

"Yep. Hey, we got you a present!"

"Is that so?"

"Horses! We got a whole bunch of horses." He turned to Thorald. "So you don't have to ride the lame one."


	9. Time to Go

_Author's Note__: Thanks to all you readers out there and special thanks to my reviewers: BarnabusAmbrosiusIII and parkway. Feedback is both helpful and encouraging._

**9: Time to Go**

The little girl in the old-fashioned dress walked the workroom restlessly. She'd already cleaned the lab until the glassware gleamed. A finicky attention to detail was important in alchemical work, as Babette had learned through long experience. Gabriella had danced in last night with a new contract and she always insisted her toxins be freshly made. So Babette had worked through the night to prepare them. She no longer tried to convince her 'sister' that it made no difference—it was just one of Gabriella's quirks. We're all eccentric here, in this strange little family we've made, Babette thought.

She looked down into the spider pit. Lis had retreated into her web as if she knew her services would soon be required. Someone was going to have to milk the spider for poison and Babette had no illusions about who _that_ was going to be. She sighed. The Sanctuary seemed so _small_ lately. She made another turn around the room.

"Some of us are trying to work." Festus Krex gave her an irritated glance over the top of the ancient book he'd been pouring over for hours.

"What are you working on?" Babette asked.

"Never you mind what I'm working on. If you're so bored, go out, get some fresh air. Kill someone."

"The sun's still up."

"Is it? Too bad for you. Find something to do and stop bothering me."

"Can I help?" Babette asked.

"When did you become a master in Destruction magic?"

"You don't have to be snotty. I'm a Breton. Magic is in my blood."

"Amongst other things," Festus muttered. "I don't need help. All I need is a bit of peace and quiet." His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy with fatigue. He'd always been ill-tempered but when had he gotten so _old_? She remembered when he'd joined the family, a swaggering young mage self-exiled from the College of Winterhold. Had that been _fifty years_ ago?

Where did the time go?

"What's this new contract Gabriella's out on?" she asked. "Anything juicy?"

"Something for Maven Black-Briar, is all I know."

"Oh. Her. Ugh. Another business killing."

Festus shot her a look through bushy eyebrows. "Business is what we do, girl. Were you expecting something splendid?" He gave her a caustic frown. "There is no splendor in this degraded age."

"One can always hope." A depressed silence fell over the workroom. Before Festus could get back to his book, Babette asked, "What are we going to do about this Aretino boy?"

Festus didn't even pretend to not know what she was talking about. "Nothing."

"Nothing? But people are saying he's performed the Black Sacrament. Even I've heard about it. And no one tells me anything," she grumbled.

"Astrid says he's a ten year old boy, mad at his ma or some such nonsense. She says he needs a spanking, not an assassin. I'm sure someone will give him one sooner or later."

"We can't just do nothing. It makes us look bad."

Festus shrugged. "He's a kid and he doesn't have any coin. If Astrid says there's no contract, there's no contract."

"We should ignore him because he doesn't have any _coin_? Are we merely paid assassins now?"

"You think we should ride all the way out to Windhelm for some spoiled brat? For free?"

"Just because he's a child, that doesn't mean the Night Mother doesn't hear him," Babette said. "He's done the Black Sacrament! That's no trivial task."

"Not saying I disagree. I'm just telling you what Astrid said."

Babette gave him a troubled look. "But if he's truly done the sacrament and we turn our back on him—Festus, there are consequences. You know that. We can't abandon our very purpose for being. We've lost so much. Do we dare anger the Night Mother?"

"We have no Listener, haven't for years. Who's to say the Night Mother hasn't abandoned us first?"

"You sound like Astrid." Babette pinched the bridge of her nose, an expression that didn't quite fit the child she appeared to be. "Well, what else do we have going on? I looked through the contracts last night. We're being asked to clear squatters off someone's land? Where's the glory in that? How does that serve Sithis?"

Festus shrugged. "A soul's a soul. Glory doesn't pay the bills."

"No. That's not right. Sithis doesn't bargain like some—some shopkeeper." Babette shook her head. "We've gotten so small. So petty. Nothing against Astrid, you know I love her, but really. Can't we do any better than this?" She sighed. "It used to be _fun_ around here. Not just dull, dreary business."

"So you want to go play with the little Aretino boy?"

"I want to do _something_. I'm tired of being holed up in this boring cave."

"Sanctuary."

"This boring Sanctuary, then. We don't take risks like we used to."

"Now you sound like Arnbjorn."

"Now you're getting nasty." She glared at Festus. Not that any of this was his fault. "I mean it though. I'm going to Windhelm."

"Astrid won't like it."

Babette fumed. She almost stomped her tiny foot before she realized how foolish she would look. Have I made a mistake, she wondered. Have I played the child for so long that no one can see what I truly am? "Astrid is our leader but she doesn't own me. She doesn't even treat me like a sister. She treats me like a _daughter_. Like a _child_!"

"She just wants to protect you. She worries about your condition, you know."

"Protect me. Ha! I've been sending souls to Sithis since before she was born. Since before her grandmother was born."

"You've been an assassin since the Third Era, yes, yes, we've all heard the stories." Festus laughed. "Oh, Babette, you should see your face. Seriously though. Be careful."

"Be careful. Ha. I've survived things that would give you nightmares." She took another turn around the room, feeling her energy rise with every step. "It's been decades since I was last in Windhelm. A grim, cold place but there was this wonderful alchemical shop—I wonder if the owner is still alive. I really need to replenish my supplies, you know. Ha. He'd be older than you by now."

"Then he's probably dead."

"Not necessarily! Is that any way to talk?"

"We don't all have your dubious advantages."

"You could. Although the change is risky at your age."

"No, thank you." Festus stretched his neck and winced. "But ask me in ten years and I may have a different answer. Who's going to watch your back?"

"I have someone in mind."

"Who?"

"One of my brothers," she said airily. "He needs a nice outing too. He could use the exercise."

Festus's brows lowered. "Who? Oh, no. If you're thinking what I'm thinking—that's Astrid's horse, Babette."

"She might say so. She might even think so. But she's wrong. He's our brother. He's been a part of our family even longer than I have. If he belongs to anyone, he belongs to Sithis."

"So what right do you have to take him?"

"I have no right at all," Babette said. "I'm not going to _take_ him. I'm just going to _ask_ him. He can decide for himself."

xxx

Wrapped in her travel cloak, Babette stood by the dark gloomy pool outside the Sanctuary. "The moons will soon be full and bright, my brother," she whispered. "It's a beautiful night for a ride."

Her heightened senses heard nothing. Nothing but the breeze in the trees. Nothing but the nocturnal insects busy with their short, tiny lives. The larger predators—the hunting birds, the foxes, and the wolves–hid in frozen silence at the presence of a yet larger predator.

"I've brought you a carrot, my friend. A nice, blood-soaked carrot."

For a long moment, nothing but the night insects and a gentle sigh of wind through the trees disturbed the evening's silence. Then the water rippled. Babette gave a small close-lipped smile.

* * *

"One of the guards reported seeing a flying spider on the walls last night," Saerlund said. He'd retreated to her workroom after a dinner full of jeers and barbs. His brother, as usual, was as subtle as a war hammer and the servants listened to every insult with gloating relish. This was the only place in the palace where he wouldn't be mocked.

"Flying?" Wylandriah asked. "Surely not."

"That's what he said." The mage looked guilty. But not guilty enough. "You promised they would stay in the cave."

"The young ones do like a nice romp outside. They need the exercise, after all."

"The captain docked the guard's pay and sent him to the barracks for being drunk on duty."

"Oh, dear," Wylandriah said.

"He said he hadn't been drinking but was about to start." Saerlund felt like drinking himself. Wylandriah still didn't seem to understand the potential seriousness of the situation. He was beginning to wonder if she ever would. "They don't really fly, do they?"

"Oh, no, of course not. Spiders can't fly."

Saerlund raised an eyebrow at her. "Apparently the guard absolutely insisted it flew."

"They don't have wings," she said.

"I'm aware that spiders don't have wings."

"But what if we _gave_ them wings? Wouldn't that be interesting? Of course, I could see there would be _several _difficulties—"

"Wylandriah." Keeping that woman on track was like herding cats in a rainstorm. "Why did the guard insist he saw a _flying_ spider?"

"Was he drunk?"

"No!"

"They do jump really high and fast. Possibly the harmonics make it look like they hover. Just a little. I'm trying to teach them to web faster. Maybe they could catch villains in their webs!"

"That would be something to see," Saerlund said. "You can teach them things? You can talk to them?"

"Of course. I'm Bosmer, you know. I've always had a gift with animals. I'm particularly good with arachnids. When I was a child, I had this striped grey wolf spider that could do the most astonishing tricks. Her name was—"

"Divines' sake, teach those spiders to stay out of sight. And no flying!"

"But—"

"Seriously, Wylandriah, you're going to have to be more careful. You need to keep these spiders under control before something happens."

"I'll set extra wards. I wouldn't want anyone to hurt my poor babies."

"No, we can't have that. I can't believe my mother ever agreed to this project, to be frank. You know she's terrified of spiders. Even house spiders."

"I didn't really get into the details. Most people fade out when I start talking details. Besides, I must protect my research, you know. I don't think anyone else has tried feeding spiders soul gems or hatching their eggs in a zone of applied harmonics."

"Um, right," Saerlund said. "Applied harmonics. I won't tell a soul. But I'm more worried about you keeping your job. Maven was serious about firing you, you know. And. Well. I'm used to having you around, you know."

"How sweet," Wylandriah said but clearly her attention was elsewhere. "Has the courier brought my Dwemer stirring spoon? I need it right away."

* * *

Grelka met Balimund for lunch at the smithy. She plopped into a chair and stretched her weary legs. She'd been all over Riften without even the hint of a glimpse of her quarry.

"I swear people are giving me the runaround," she complained. "Everyone I ask, they say they don't know this Mallory fellow. But some of them give me funny looks. Like they know something but won't say."

"That is strange," Balimund said.

"I'm beginning to think your guess was right. That maybe this is tangled up with the Thieves Guild." She sighed. "I don't know, maybe that makes sense. Maybe Mallory stole the secret from the Dunmer. Maybe he doesn't want people to find him. I'm afraid I've just been wasting my time."

"I hope your trip to Riften hasn't been a complete waste. _I'm _glad you came."

Grelka gave him a look through her lashes. Is he flirting with me, she wondered. Oh, Mara, I hope he isn't flirting with me. I am so not ready for anything like that. She sighed. "I guess I should head home. Looks like I'm not going to find this Mallory fellow. It was just a crazy idea anyway. I need to stick to steel like Eorlund keeps telling me."

"Listen, I've got an idea. I get most of my ore from the Redbelly Mine, up in Shor's Stone. Just a short ways north of here. There's a smith up there, Filnjar. You know him?"

"No. This is my first trip to the Rift. Eorlund gets his iron from Riverwood."

"Filnjar wrote me a letter saying they've turned up something strange in a new seam. He wants our alchemist to take a look at some samples. They've taken nothing but iron out of that mine for years and now there's something new. Maybe you'd like to ride up with me and take a look? I wanted to pick up a load of steel anyway."

"Eorlund gets his delivered."

"I used to but the bandits are so bad these days. Half my shipments get stolen if I'm not there to protect them."

"In Whiterun you can hire off-duty guards for things like that. The jarl doesn't mind. In fact he encourages it."

"In Riften, the off-duty guards _are_ the bandits."

"That's not good." She thought. Was there any reason she needed to be back in Whiterun? Depressingly, she couldn't think of one. "Sure," she said. "I've never actually been in an iron mine. Sounds interesting. When?"

"Is tomorrow too soon?"

xxx

Grelka packed her bags that afternoon. She'd studied the map and decided there was no need to return to Riften from Shor's Stone. It would be quicker and maybe safer to travel north up to the Eastmarch border and then follow the main road west back to Whiterun. Riften was noisy, smelly and full of thieves. Although she had met some nice people she'd also seen a whole bunch she'd just as soon not get to know. So many Dunmer, so many Argonians—they made her feel very uncomfortable. Time to get back home. Back to her place. Back to work.

It didn't take long to pack her few things and then the evening stretched out before her. Balimund had offered to meet her for a drink. That didn't sound like such a great idea. She already wondered if agreeing to go to Shor's Stone so easily hadn't given him the wrong idea. It wasn't that she didn't like him, she liked him quite well. But her heart was taken and it would stay taken until this stupid war was over, one way or another.

Mara, keep him safe, she whispered.

* * *

"I love what you've done with the place," Ancano said. "Every embassy needs a torture room or two." He carefully kept his revulsion off his face. Life had certain unpleasant realities but was it truly necessary to _relish_ them?

Elenwen smirked. "This used to be a storage area but it's so nicely soundproof."

Ancano waved his hand before a chained Nord's staring eyes. Eye. Ugh. "This one is dead, I hate to tell you."

"Yes, I know. I leave him here as an incentive for my other guests."

"Guests." He snorted. "Disposal of bodies must be a chore."

"Not at all. There's an old smuggler cave right beneath us. We merely shove the bodies through the trap door."

"Don't they, er, accumulate?"

"Not since the troll moved in." Ancano swallowed. "It comes running like a puppy whenever it hears the bolts slide back," she said. "Want to see?"

"No. Thank you." Truly, an imagination was a bit of a curse in this role. He wondered if he would be able to eat lunch. A salad, perhaps. No tomatoes.

"But enough pleasantries," the ambassador said. "Tell me about Helgen. How did Tullius escape the dragon?"

"One of his guards was a local man. I suppose he knew a back way out of the keep."

"A pity. I'm more than a little tired of Tullius and his pompous suspiciousness. Alas, there's no guarantee that any replacement sent by the Imperial City would be an improvement, should Tullius's luck finally run out." She gave him one of her enigmatic looks. "And Ulfric escaped as well. Tell me of this mercenary of yours who aided him."

"I've learned nothing new. I'm told his name was Ysgramor but—"

"Ysgramor!"

"What, do you know him?"

"You ignorant fool, do you know nothing of Skyrim? Do they send agents here without the slightest briefing at all? You don't have a clue who Ysgramor was?"

Ancano stiffened at her rebuke. "Who was he?"

"Ysgramor was the Atmoran king who drove the snow elves out of Skyrim back in the Merethic Era. He built the city of Windhelm and the Palace of Kings, where Ulfric rules even now. And that's the name this man gave you?"

"Many of these mercenaries give false names, surely."

"No Nord wishing to be anonymous would call himself Ysgramor. I wonder. Was this a joke or a statement?" She slowly cracked her knuckles, one by one. This was an old habit of hers and one that Ancano found particularly repulsive. "Now I have to wonder if he wasn't one of Ulfric's men all along," she said. "Or worse, one of Tullius's spies. He's seen your face!"

"And I've seen his."

"He's a loose end, Ancano. Tie him up."

"I'll find him."

"Have your informants found any details on what happened to our justiciars at Riverwood?"

"The farmhouse burned down while they were sleeping. The locals say the dragon did it."

"Were any other farms burned?"

"Er, I haven't heard."

"I don't like this. Too many coincidences. Our people killed, and Ulfric escapes and all of this due to a dragon. To a dragon that shouldn't exist in the first place. Where did it come from? What does it want? And where is it now?" Ancano had no answers but it was clear she didn't expect any. "I'm going to search the archives. We must know something about dragons. And you. Clean up this mess. If your mercenary connects you to the Thalmor—"

"If he survived Helgen, I'll find him. Why did Tullius start the executions early in the first place?" Ancano asked with faked concern. He was fully aware of the answer, of course. Tullius had hoodwinked her, probably while she'd been distracted by one of her foul little hobbies. "One might almost say the dragon's arrival was fortuitous, since Ulfric would otherwise be missing a head by now."

Elenwen glared at him. She'd better think twice before she tried to make him a scapegoat, he thought. He may have lost one piddling mercenary but she nearly lost the whole province. The responsibility to keep the Imperial general under control was hers. The responsibility to keep Skyrim embroiled in safely unproductive chaos was hers. If she failed, the Aldmeri Dominion might find itself back at war before it was ready. And if that happened, she'd no doubt be on the front lines with him this time.


	10. Rumors of Dragons

_**Author's Note**__: Sorry for the delay, folks, this chapter has been giving me fits. Fits, I say! I couldn't find a good place to break it, so it's on the longish side. And although I'm still not happy with it, I'm a lot less unhappy..._

_Gratitude and dragon cookies to all you who have read, reviewed or messaged me—thank you for the encouragement! I know there are a lot of Skyrim stories out there. Thank you for reading mine._

**10: Rumors of Dragons**

Joric and his remaining soldiers stripped the Stormcloak camp as they prepared to ride east with Jarl Ulfric. A scout had already been sent ahead for reinforcements from the camp in the Rift. It was rumored, though not confirmed, that General Tullius and his surviving Imperials had retreated to Falkreath.

Like a nightmare, the dragon had vanished. Thorald felt his gaze frequently flick upwards to scan the sky. They all did it.

Stormcloaks struck down tents and packed gear with a fair show of efficiency. The campfire had not yet been doused. Ulfric sat at one of the rough log seats near the fire and beckoned for Thorald to join him. The soldiers covertly watched their jarl while they worked. His words, his gestures, his expressions were scrutinized and committed to memory. History would shape itself around this man. They all knew it.

Of a certainty, Jarl Ulfric was aware of his constant audience. He moved and spoke with deliberation, not precisely performing but not entirely natural either. Is this what it takes to be a king, Thorald wondered. What a terrible burden it must be to have such a destiny. Always having to be on guard, lest some careless word or action bring dishonor to his cause. Did Ulfric ever kick back, relax, drink and sing with his friends?

Thorald suspected he did not.

The jarl asked Thorald to once more describe what happened when he Shouted. Ulfric listened with the same intensity that he brought to everything he did.

"And the words came from your throat almost without volition? Do you know what they mean?" Ulfric's voice sounded rough and scratchy, just like Thorald's felt.

"No," Thorald said. "I know what they do. I saw what happened when you Shouted."

"It was your intention to push the dragon back."

"I had to."

"You had to." Ulfric sat back and gave a small huff of a laugh. "So you did." He regarded Thorald for a moment. "Do you understand what the Voice is?"

"Power?"

"It is magic. An old Nordic magic. Most Nords have the aptitude to learn to Shout, I am told, but for most of us it takes years of study and practice. That you should learn to Shout in your time of need is—" Ulfric hesitated a moment and then his eyes sharpened with decision. "You will not be returning to Windhelm with me," he said. Thorald opened his mouth and then shut it."I need you to ride to Whiterun and warn Balgruuf of this dragon. You are from Whiterun. You may enter his city without causing an affront."

Thorald's disappointment instantly turned to elation. Whiterun! He could try to set things straight with Grelka! He'd tried several times to write her a letter but was never able to make words flow on paper. But if he could see her, surely he could persuade her—he realized the jarl was still talking.

"Balgruuf and I have our differences but I would not see this danger strike him unprepared."

"No." If a dragon attacked Whiterun—Thorald's imagination flashed several grisly scenes from Helgen before he shut it off. Ulfric leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"After you have told Balgruuf what we know of this dragon, ride to Ivarstead and take the Seven Thousand Steps up to High Hrothgar. You must go to the Greybeards."

"The Greybeards?" He'd heard stories of the Greybeards from Uncle Vignar. They lived on Tamriel's highest mountain, the Throat of the World, the sacred place where Nords were created when the sky breathed upon the land. They wore gags because their voices were so powerful, even one of their whispers was deadly. On the rare occasions that they spoke, storms ravaged the land. "They're real?"

Ulfric raised his brows. "As real as you or I."

"I meant—"

Ulfric nodded in understanding. "The legends of our past still live."

"Do they?" Thorald breathed. Ulfric's eyes flashed. Ulfric's conviction was palpable and Thorald felt his own heart lift. After all, he had felt the Shout rip through his body like a living thing. It was magic. What else was possible? "What must I do?"

"You Shouted. With no training, you Shouted. We must learn how this is so."

"I learned it from you."

Ulfric shook his head. "The Words must be taken into yourself, studied and understood at the deepest level before they can be released as a Shout. This is how the Greybeards teach. Yet you can Shout. This demands an explanation that only the Greybeards can provide. You must present yourself to them and ask to be trained."

"You want me to train with the Greybeards?"

"We must learn what you can do. There was a time when the Voice was common with our people. Every war chief was a Tongue or had one in his army and when we went to war, the Tongues were our proudest, greatest weapons. But in the First Era, our armies suffered a horrific defeat against the elves at Red Mountain. The greatest of the Tongues that survived, Jurgen Windcaller, came to believe our defeat was due to misuse of the Voice. He retreated to Kyne's sacred mountain and there he founded the monastery of the Greybeards at High Hrothgar. Since that time, our people stopped using the Voice in battle."

"Is it forbidden?" Thorald asked.

"The Greybeards say the Voice should be used only in times of True Need." Thorald saw a spark of something in Ulfric's eyes—anger or frustration perhaps. "A handful of old men have the power to shake the entire world. They do not act. They sit, high on the mountain, and pray. They do not see what our people suffer. They do not see that the time of True Need is upon us now."Ulfric shook his head. "I studied with them, you know. It's been many a year since I've been to High Hrothgar. A lifetime ago. Three of us went. Will you hear the story?"

"Willingly."

"Three of us would-be heroes climbed the sacred mountain to learn the old ways. Our world was on the brink of war—this was before the Great War, you understand—but even then, we knew that great changes were almost upon us. As the bards say, we stood on the cusp of destiny." Ulfric snorted. Sometimes the bards are right, Thorald thought.

"Three of us climbed the Seven Thousand Steps. Balgruuf, Istlod and I, all of us jarls' sons, all of us wrestling the weight of history that pressed upon us. All of us hoping to surpass the deeds of our fathers. And each other, of course. The bonds of rivalry are perhaps stronger than the bonds of friendship and we were bound by both. Balgruuf, you know. Istlod was Torygg's father and already in line to be our High King."

Ulfric stared into the dying fire. "Istlod's been dead these few years now. His son meant the world to him but he showed his love by denying him nothing, so that Torygg never learned to stand on his own. And now Istlod's son is dead by my hand. We'd never imagined such a thing, back in those days when we bickered like boys and secretly measured ourselves against each other.

"I'm not sure what the Greybeards made of us but they allowed us to stay. The monastery sits high on Kyne's mountain. You can feel Kyne's presence in the winds that sweep down from the mountain's peak. The Throat of the World, they call it. The birthplace of our people.

"Istlod didn't last out the week. High Hrothgar is a cold austere place and the training was difficult and demanding. The Greybeards rarely spoke and they made it clear they found our idle chatter profane. Except for the wind, it was a silent place. Istlod was accustomed to the Blue Palace and all its luxuries, great and small. For me, coming from Windhelm, it wasn't such an adjustment." Thorald chuckled and Ulfric smiled. "In Windhelm, our wealth lies not in gold nor in trade but in honor and tradition. The monastery seemed almost like home to me.

"Balgruuf stayed longer, unwilling to leave as long as I was willing to stay. But in the end he realized what the Greybeards already knew, that he had no aptitude for the training. I did."

"That's where you learned to Shout."

"That's where I learned the few words of the thu'um I was able to master. You—you learned in five heartbeats what it took me years to understand."

"I've always been a good mimic."

"Can magic be mimicked? This is a gift, Thorald. You must go to the Greybeards and they will teach you how to use it."

"What if they turn me away?"

"They won't," Ulfric said flatly. "They can't." A silence rose. "This dragon. It means something, that it has shown up here and now. The Greybeards may know what it means."

"Some of the men say the dragon was sent to save you."

"That makes a pretty story. I am not so vain or foolish as to believe it. You saw what I saw. The dragon would have killed us, if it could." He laughed. "Too bad. If we did have our own dragon, we could certainly find some use for it. But no. It worries me that the scouts have seen no sign of the creature since Helgen. So you must warn Balgruuf. He and I may have our differences but his people must be protected. If you can't get an audience with Balgruuf, speak to his housecarl, Irileth. She is reliable."

"You know Irileth?"

"She fought with us in the Great War. That's when she and Balgruuf became such friends. Finest archer I've ever seen." He smiled. "If I had just one like her, perhaps I could turn the whole situation around in the Grey Quarter."

"When I first came to Windhelm, I was surprised how many dark elves there were. You see them only rarely in Whiterun."

"The dark elves came as refugees when the Red Mountain erupted. All these years later, they are still refugees. I thought they'd go to Solsteim when it was given to them but they stay. They complain but they stay. They want the protection of my walls but won't lift a finger to defend them. They sit in their slum and stew in their discontent but will they do anything to improve their lot?"Ulfric gave an exasperated sigh. "If they think they'd be happier under Thalmor rule, they should see how their kin are treated in Valenwood. I have no patience for them. They say this is not their fight. What that tells me is that this is not their home. They will not commit until they see which side will prevail. If they won't join my army they could at least join the city guard, but they won't even do that. Galmar says we should put the lot of them on a ship and send them back to Morrowind. The thought tempts me."

Ulfric shook his head. "I'm sorry, I digress. You should go. Good luck to you, Thorald. I will not forget the service you have done for me in Helgen. You know the traditional reward for a job well done—"

"Another job!" they said in unison.

"Aye," Ulfric said. "You'd best say goodbye to your family while you can. I think the Greybeards are going to keep you very busy. Time means nothing there, in High Hrothgar. You will see."

* * *

The alchemy shop was dim and quiet. A dark pungent concoction simmered over the fireplace, strong enough to make Brynjolf's eyes water, even from across the room.

"You're sure this potion will do the trick?" Brynjolf eyed the unmarked vial.

"If you administer it properly, it will work," Ingun Black-Briar said. She had a strong look of her grandmother, Maven. The same features, close enough, the same steely resolve, but with a lot less command and a lot more crazy. "Mix the entire contents in a drink. The potion has a characteristic sweet taste, so I recommend you mix it into something that will disguise this taste. Mead would be a good choice."

"Black-Briar mead, of course."

Ingun gave him a long emotionless look. No sense of humor. Just like Maven. "The initial reaction should begin to display in about a half hour and will be very similar to a frenzy spell. The subject will become belligerent, irrationally so. When this phase wears off, the subject will become unconscious and will not be able to be roused until the drug is completely metabolized some hours later."

Brynjolf took a moment to digest these words. "That sounds perfect. It won't cause any permanent harm, will it?" He wanted this nosy stranger out of town, preferably without her valuables. If she was humiliated in the process, all the better. He didn't want her dead, especially not if she was associated with the Companions. He just wanted her gone from his city.

"Please let me know the results. I haven't been able to do as much field testing as I would like."

So there's a chance it won't work, Brynjolf thought sourly. With the luck we've been having lately—well, it had just better work.

"I'll let you know," Brynjolf said. "Give my regards to your grandmother."

"My mother."

Brynjolf blinked. "Say what, lass?"

"You will refer to Maven as my mother. She insists." Ingun's voice was expressionless but her eyes were hard and angry. He had just heard some strange whispers about her and her father, Hemming. He heard they had run into trouble in Whiterun—messy, embarrassing, costly trouble—and Maven was seriously displeased. He'd asked Mercer and Mercer had only smirked. So something had gone down. Was that resentment he saw in the girl's eyes?

Brynjolf watched her carefully. It was true enough that Maven had raised both Ingun and Sibbi as her own after their terribly unsuitable mother left. After their mother was disposed of, his mind whispered. And 'grandmother' was such an _aging _title. But did Hemming go along with this? Probably so. The only way Hemming had ever defied his mother was in his dalliances.

He shook his head. Those Black-Briars, all as crazy as outhouse skeevers. But as long as they had power and they had gold, he supposed they could be as crazy as they liked.

xxx

Rumors of dragons had outraced Thorald to Whiterun. It was broad daylight and the city gates were closed. Like that will keep out a dragon, Thorald thought. He left his horse with the stable boy and girded his loins to knock on the residence door. Before he could do so, Lilith Maiden-Loom, owner of the stable and Grelka's aunt, swept out into the yard. She glared.

"You!" She was distracted at the sight of his horse being led away. "Where did you get that horse? She looks familiar."

"Er."

"Never mind that. You have a lot of nerve, showing your face in Whiterun."

"Is Grelka here? I wish to speak to her."

"It's too late for that, isn't it? And no, she's not here. She left. After what you did, who could blame her, poor girl."

It took an effort not to grind his teeth and a real effort to keep his tone civil. "Where is she?"

Lillith put her hands on her hips. The brackets by her mouth deepened. "I won't tell you."

"What? Why not?"

"She told me not to." With that, she flounced back into her house. He took a step forward, ready to pound on her door. But it was hopeless. She was immune to his sweet-talk and he doubted a dragon could intimidate her.

"Oblivion," he muttered.

The gate guards recognized him and let him in without an argument. Which was good because Thorald was seething. Whiterun seemed just the same as when he left, which perhaps was unsurprising, considering he hadn't been gone all that long. Even if it did seem like a lifetime. His scowl and fast determined pace carried him past old friends and acquaintances but that I-can't-talk-now aura didn't work on his mother. Her mouth opened wide and her market basket hit the cobbles.

"Thorald! You're alive!"

"Of course I am. Divines' sake, don't shout."

"Such dreadful things we've heard."

Thorald drew his mother out of the marketplace and to a sheltered area behind the inn. It took him a moment to disengage from her fierce hug. "I can't stay to talk, I have to see the jarl."

"They said you died at Helgen. That you'd been captured with Jarl Ulfric and all of you were killed there."

"Who said that?"

"Those dung-licking Battle-Borns. Olfrid. And his lout of a son-in-law, Idolaf. Olfrid came right up to my little market stand, told me you'd got what was coming to you, that you were dead with the other Stormcloaks."

Thorald had known Olfrid Battle-Born his whole life. Back when he and Jon ran together, Olfrid had been practically another uncle, distant and stately but not unkind. When had he become so petty and malicious? And where did he get his information? He seemed disturbingly well-informed. Like Vignar, he no doubt had a web of informants but why would he taunt his mother like this? It was pointless and cruel.

"Ma, don't listen to them. Don't talk to them. I've got to go, but tell me, do you know where Grelka went?"

Fralia Gray-Mane sniffed. "That Girl. No. She said she needed a break, was going to take a little trip somewhere. Humph. A break. When your da is working as hard as he is. If anyone needs a break, it's Eorlund. Not that he'd ever take one."

"I have to go."

"Where's your uniform? I really wanted to see you in your uniform. An officer! I bet you look spiffy."

"Spiffy?" Thorald choked back a laugh. "I don't wear a uniform now, I'm on a special assignment. Please don't talk about this to anyone."

"As if I would. Except to your Uncle Vignar of course. Now you come eat supper with us when you finish your little chat with the jarl. I've got a nice roast."

* * *

Saerlund had to run to catch up with Wylandriah. Goodness, that woman had long legs. She strode through the busy marketplace like she had it to herself. In a way, she did. On seeing her wizard's robes, most scrambled to get out of her way. They did not make way for him. By the time he reached her he had to wait for her to finish her business with the food vendor.

"You'll have the chickens by tomorrow, Marise?" the mage asked anxiously.

"Six chickens by tomorrow," the Dunmer said. "Do you want them cleaned, plucked and drawn?"

"It would be nice if they were clean," Wylandriah said. "But plucked? Oh! You mean—no, no, Marise, I need _live_ chickens. That's very important."

"You want six live chickens? To take to the keep?" The vendor raised skeptical brows at Saerlund. He shrugged. "I'll have them caged and ready by tomorrow."

Wylandriah beamed.

Saerlund wondered what she wanted with the chickens. If he asked, she'd probably tell him. He decided not to ask. He also wondered how she'd get them to her workroom. He hoped it wouldn't be a repeat of her relocation of the spiders. He wasn't sure Riften was ready for the sight of six unfettered chickens happily marching in a straight line behind their court mage. He certainly wasn't.

"Mother and Anuriel were fussing again about this fire protection system," he said. "How does it work?"

"It doesn't."

"It doesn't work?" What do you mean?" He wondered if it had anything to do with chickens.

"I haven't got the theory completely worked out. It will be awhile yet."

Could she have forgotten? Speaking carefully, he said, "But Wylandriah, the control boxes are all over town. Everyone's been talking about it for weeks. The system cost a bloody fortune. There was a special tax to pay for it." He took in her blank stare with a sinking feeling. "You don't know what I'm talking about. How can you not know what I'm talking about? Anuriel says the system is finished. Except for some fine tuning or something. You know how she gets when she doesn't have any idea what she's talking about and keeps on talking anyway."

"Saerlund. I haven't installed a fire protection system. The cloud siphon won't scale up properly and wait—you say the system is _finished_?"

"Could Anuriel have hired some other wizard to install it?"

"Without even having the courtesy of talking to me first? When she knew I was working on it? Would she be so discourteous? So unprofessional?"

Maybe, he thought. Probably.

"They didn't even show me the design? Or invite me to the testing?" Wylandriah was getting increasingly worked up. She waved her hands. It was never good when she started waving her hands.

"You know, that's another funny thing," he said. "I don't believe the system has been tested at all. Some of the merchants came asking about that, in fact, and Anuriel put them off."

"How does it work? If someone has stolen my research, I'll—well, I don't know what I'll do. But I'll do it! And they won't like it. Whoever they are."

"I'm not sure how it works. There's a Dwemer pump somewhere down near the cistern. Calcelmo supplied it, so it should be reliable."

"Calcelmo! A Dwemer pump!"

"That's what Anuriel said. I was sure you knew about it. Isn't he your friend? You have all his books."

"I certainly thought he was my friend!"

"But—"

"I thought I knew Calcelmo quite well. He's been of considerable help with my research. And all this time he was going behind my back? And to put in a _pumping_ system?" Her voice rose higher and higher. The people in the marketplace who hadn't already edged away did so now. "I told him that would never work, we don't have the Dwemer technology to make and install the pipes required. And any sort of mechanical heat detection would be ridiculously complicated, and that's not even allowing for thermic drift. He _agreed_ with me—or pretended to. How can people treat me this way? People I trusted! I don't believe it. I just don't believe it!"

"You know," Saerlund said slowly. "I don't quite believe it either."

* * *

'Dragon' was the magic word that got Thorald into Dragonsreach for an immediate audience with the jarl. Along with the jarl's brother, his housecarl, his steward and court mage.

"You saw this horror?" the jarl asked. "With your own eyes?"

"It tore down Helgen Keep practically on top of us," Thorald said.

"Where is it now?" Balgruuf asked. "Is it headed this way?"

"I don't know," he had to admit. "We lost track of it once it left Helgen. Someone in Riverwood saw it fly north into the mountains."

"If it is lurking in the mountains, Riverwood is in the most immediate danger," Irileth said. "We should send troops now." The steward began a protest but the jarl cut him off.

"You are right," he said. "Take care of it. I suppose it is too much to hope the beast will fly south to Cyrodiil."

"Did you get a close look at the dragon?" Farengar asked. The court wizard's eyes were avid. "I want to know everything about it."

"I broke my blade on its face."

"If it comes here, how do we fight it?" Balgruuf asked.

"Nothing we tried had any effect," Thorald said. "Arrows bounced off its hide. The wizards hit it with fireballs that did little more than stagger it. Even steel couldn't pierce its skin. It breathes fire. It flies. It's strong enough to pick up a grown man and fly off with him." Thorald shuddered at the memory.

"Perhaps ice spells would work where fire failed," Farengar murmured.

"We need more men in the watchtowers," Balgruuf said. He turned to his steward. "And Proventus, see that the fire brigade is on alert. The cisterns are to be kept full at all times."

"How big is this dragon?" Irileth asked.

"It's as long as this hall. Its wings are like the sails of a war ship. Its head is larger than that." He pointed. In silence they gazed up at the huge dragon skull mounted above the jarl's throne.

"It must have a weak spot," she finally said.

"We didn't find one. But."

"But what?" Balgruuf asked.

"I've been thinking. It seems like if we concentrated on its wings we could force it down to the ground. Seems like the wings ought to be more fragile than the rest. There was total panic at Helgen, you understand. We had no time to come up with a strategy of any kind."

"The archers at Helgen, they used Imperial long bows?" Irileth asked. Thorald nodded. "I'm going to issue crossbows to the men," she told Balgruuf. "Something with more of a punch."

"Regular steel couldn't scratch it," Thorald said. "But Skyforge steel just might."

"If this creature is so fearsome, how did you manage to escape?" the jarl's brother asked. Hrongar, that was his name.

"Jarl Ulfric Shouted at it," he said. "That's the only thing that seemed to affect it." And the main effect was to make the dragon really, really mad, he thought.

"He used the thu'um," Balgruuf said thoughtfully. "So perhaps the Greybeards could stop this dragon."

"Who are these Greybeards?" Proventus asked.

"You've lived so long in our lands and yet you don't know our legends?" Hrongar scoffed. "The Greybeards are the masters of the Voice. They are like the Tongues of old."

"It is little wonder he knows nothing of them," Balgruuf said. "They live apart, and they do not concern themselves with worldly events. Perhaps they could stop this dragon but would they choose to do so? I doubt that. I doubt that very much." He sighed. "How goes your research, Farengar?"

"I have nothing of much real use as of yet," he said. "I have a map of the old dragon burial sites, but until someone can verify them, I don't know if this helps us or not." He turned to Thorald. "I have you to thank for the map, by the way."

"Me?"

"Aye. Do you recall some years ago, you and your young friends traipsed into Bleak Falls Barrow?"

"By Talos, I do." Thorald laughed. "Such a tongue-lashing we got from my uncle. He was furious we had taken Olfina and Grelka to such a dangerous place. As if we could have stopped them. They dragged _us_ up there. Said they needed strong backs to cart off all the treasure they expected to find." He shook his head. "But I don't remember any map."

"But do you remember the curious stone you brought me? The Dragon Stone. My, er, research tells me that it is a map of dragon burial sites."

"I am sure that is interesting, Farengar," Balgruuf said. "But if you could learn how these dragons were killed in the first place, that would be of more practical use."

"Of course, Jarl Balgruuf."

The jarl beckoned to Thorald. "A word in private, if you please." Thorald followed him to one of the side rooms. "I know you are Ulfric's man now but you have done me and Whiterun a service, Thorald Gray-Mane. I won't forget it."

"This is still my home," he said, touched. "I will do what I can to defend it."

"The coming days may test that resolve." The jarl sighed. "But we will speak not of politics but of dragons. There is another thing you could do for me. Would you speak to the Companions, tell them what you know of this threat? Enlist their aid in the city's defense. I thought it would sound better, coming from one of their own, than from me. None of them takes orders well. Especially Kodlak and I've known him for more years than I care to count." He smiled and Thorald smiled back.

"I will." It was a good thought.

"I have great faith in Irileth and my own men but they will fight better, knowing that the Companions stand with them. And you, what are your plans?"

Is there any reason not to tell him, Thorald wondered, and decided there was not.

"I go to High Hrothgar."

"High Hrothgar?" The jarl's brows rose. "Ulfric sends you there? Does he truly think to enlist the Greybeards' aid in this? He, of all men, should know better than that. I have been there, you know. Long ago."

"Jarl Ulfric told me."

"Did he? It is a peaceful place, remote from the world and the monks are very wise. But it is no place for jarls or sons of jarls. The Greybeards believe the thu'um should be used for the glory of the gods and for no other purpose. A noble idea, I am sure. But a jarl is very much a part of this world and the Way of the Voice is not a way we can follow. Ulfric thought he could take the learning of the Greybeards and use it like in the old days. The Greybeards saw this as a betrayal. Why do you go there? Why, at this time?"

Thorald hesitated. "Something happened at Helgen. The dragon attacked me and I Shouted."

Balgruuf stared. "You Shouted? Just like that? You used the thu'um, with no training? And Ulfric heard this."

Thorald nodded. "When I heard Ulfric Shout, I could feel the words in my head. And then I could do it. He said I must go to the Greybeards to be trained."

"Of a certainty, you must go to the Greybeards." The jarl paced a couple of steps. "I wonder what he expects of you. These are not Ysgramor's times. We cannot go back to the simple heroic life Ulfric used to dream of. But he will drag us back if he can." Balgruuf gave him a long look. "He used the thu'um in Markarth, you know. Years ago, against the rebels. They say it was a butchery. A slaughter. The thu'um is not meant for such."

"The dragon Shouted."

The jarl blinked. "It Shouted? It used the thu'um?"

"I could hear it, like words in my head."

"I should have remembered. That is what the thu'um is. It is the language of dragons. The tales say that Kyne taught this language to Nords long ago, to a gifted few who became the Tongues of old. Kyne has touched you once. Perhaps she touches you again." He shook his head. "I do not understand. But yes, go to High Hrothgar. Seek out the wisdom of the Greybeards."

* * *

Filthy and tired, Grelka dragged herself into the Bee and Barb. "I'll be staying another night after all," she told the innkeeper.

"You want your same room?"

Grelka nodded. An Argonian innkeeper. It just seemed so strange. She tried not to stare but there was something fascinating about the way the light glinted over the woman's scales. The way they overlapped—could she make armor like that? Her back was aching from the tense, uncomfortable drive back from Shor's Stone. It was worse for Balimund, of course. She had pushed his horses as fast as she dared over the pocked and stony road. Balimund had bounced like a sack of potatoes in the bed of the wagon, wrapped in blankets, sweating and shivering, too ill to moan or complain. Poisoned.

The trip to Shor's Stone had started as a pleasant outing but they arrived to find no ore was ready because the mine had been invaded by giant spiders.

Grelka had strung her bow. Spiders? No problem. They were common in the caves near Whiterun and she had tagged along plenty of times with the Companions, clearing them out.

But she hadn't counted on Balimund. He meant well. He was certainly brave enough and perhaps he had hoped to impress her with his prowess with that big hammer of his. Oblivion take the man! Thorald would never cross in front of her, spoiling her aim. Thorald would have stood beside her, ready to back her up. He wouldn't have charged in like a fool. He wouldn't have ended up poisoned.

He wouldn't have gone into a spider cave without an antidote. He had better armor, too.

Perhaps her irritation was unfair. But now here she was, back in Riften. She thought she had escaped. But she couldn't leave Balimund while he was ill. Once the priests had him patched up, she'd go home. Tomorrow, perhaps, she'd go home.

She turned and almost ran over a man who'd come right up behind her. This being Riften, she checked her coin purse. He had red hair, a red beard, and was a bit scruffy looking despite his nice clothes.

"Excuse me," she said politely and turned away.

"Hold there, lass," he said. "Is your name Grelka?"

"Why?"

"I hear you've been asking around about a friend of mine. Fellow named Mallory?"

"You know him?" So he wasn't just hitting on her after all.

"Let me buy you a drink and I'll tell you what I know. Have a seat here and I'll fetch the drinks. Keerava," he called out. "Two mugs of your best mead."


	11. Homecoming

_Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Reviews and comments always welcome. I'm somewhere close to halfway through, hoping to wind this up in time for NaNoWriMo in November._

**11: Homecoming**

Thorald trotted down the steps from Dragonsreach and then hesitated in indecision. Should he speak to Kodlak now or collect his gear from the stables first? He'd left his weapons with his saddlebags. Irileth kicked a fit if any outsider entered the jarl's presence while armed. He wasn't in Stormcloak uniform but she knew he was sworn to Ulfric now. And Irileth could kick up a pretty good fit. He might as well collect all his gear and leave it at Jorrvaskr. They always had spare beds and that way he wouldn't have to put his ma out, or rather, Avulstein, who had claimed his half of their shared bedroom while he'd still been packing to go to Windhelm.

Had things gone right, that room would have been his and Grelka's, and it would be Avulstein sleeping on a lumpy mattress in Jorrvaskr and listening to Torvar's sodden snores.

But things hadn't gone right and he didn't know if he could ever make them right again. And Grelka was gone. Where had she gone? Why didn't she want him to know where she was?

How could he make things right?

He stopped for a moment to admire the Gildergreen. Aela stepped out Jorrvaskr's front door and that decided him. He strode up the stone stairs to meet her.

"Ah, Thorald, good. Just the man I wanted to see." She gave him a cool look. Aela was the only one of the Companions who hadn't condemned him for joining the Stormcloaks. If it wasn't for Kodlak's insistence the Companions stay out of politics, he suspected she might have joined up herself. Not that she cared much for politics but glory, that she cared about.

"You've heard of this dragon at Helgen?" he asked.

"That I have. Where is it now? Is it true you've lost track of the beast? If they are as big as people say, I wouldn't think it would be that hard to track."

"We think it flew up into the mountains."

"I suppose it will leave when it's hungry. What does it eat?"

"I don't know. Aela, this dragon isn't a mere beast. It speaks."

"What did it say?"

"I didn't understand it but it definitely used words."

"If it slaughtered the people of Helgen, I suppose that's all I need to know. How do we kill it?"

"Nothing we did at Helgen injured it in the slightest. Weapons broke on its hide. Arrows bounced off its scales like hitting a stone wall."

"I have arrows, dwarven arrows, that will go through steel plate. I'll fetch them." She turned her head. "What is that noise?"

Thorald listened and heard nothing. Aela's hearing was notoriously sharp. He opened his mouth but she held up her hand. "There," she finally said. She pointed west.

The sound was far off and so faint that he could almost convince himself he imagined it. Almost.

"The dragon," he whispered.

"Ah. Then I'll fetch those arrows now."

What a time to be unarmed! Thorald thundered down the steps but stopped when he saw a red-faced guard running like daedra chased him. Thorald grabbed his arm.

"Is it the dragon?" he asked. "Where is it?"

"Western Watchtower," the boy gasped.

"Has it attacked?"

"No, it's just circling. It's big! Talos, it's big. And it's fast. I thought it would eat me for sure."

Thorald gave him a gentle push. "Go! Tell Irileth and the jarl!" He turned, ready to run to the stables when his ma entered the plaza. She carried a long package in both hands.

"Thorald!" she hollered. Her voice was extremely penetrating. He ran to her side.

"Ma, you've got to go inside now. The dragon's been sighted. Go down to the cellar and stay there."

"It's coming here? Talos save us! Take this, Thorald, you need to take this now."

He took a closer look and he knew what it was, even before she'd started to pull off the cloth that covered it. A sword was a sword, you could hardly disguise it. He'd known, of course, that Grelka was making him a sword as a wedding gift. Hard to hide something like that when the smithy was right above Jorrvaskr. Half the town and all the Companions wandered up to the Skyforge whenever they were bored or chilly. So he'd known about the sword. But he hadn't seen it.

"Kyne!" he breathed.

It was a two-hander. The blade was long but not unwieldy. The balance was perfect. The hilt fit his hands like he'd wielded it his whole life. If anyone ever wondered if Grelka would be a master smith, he thought, let them look at this. The answer was in his hands. And she'd had it enchanted. The blade shimmered with power.

"Eorlund sharpened it," Fralia said. "Here's the scabbard. Grelka made that too. Stop staring and put it on."

"I will. Go somewhere safe, now, ma. Hurry."

"You go kill that thing and then I'll be safe. And be careful. And don't forget we're having a roast tonight if the house doesn't burn down. Now go."

Aela had come out in time to catch the last of this. As always, despite Grelka's many attempts to get her into something more protective, she wore the ancient armor that had been passed from mother to daughter through generations of her family. The corner of her mouth quirked up.

"Maybe we'll have roast dragon in Jorrvaskr," Aela said. "The others are coming. Let's not wait. Let's head for the watchtower and scout."

"They're all coming?" he asked, as they moved quickly towards the gates.

"Even the whelps. No one wants to miss out on the first dragon in an age. Skjor says we have some throwing spears somewhere. He's got Tilma checking all the closets. Kodlak's going to be sorry he missed this."

"Where's Kodlak?"

"Left for Morthal yesterday." Her mouth turned down. "To talk to the jarl."

"Why?"

"Not for me to say." But her expression said plenty. Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone was a seer. No doubt Kodlak was consulting her about a cure to the beast-blood. His desire to be clean of the curse had been a source of friction in the Circle for the last year. "No good can come of it," she muttered. "And he'll miss the dragon. Too bad Grelka's not here."

"Yeah." The three of them—Aela, Irileth, and Grelka—were such deadly archers that the Companions called them the Red Sisters. Extremely competitive, too. "Where is she, by the way? Do you know? No one will say."

"She doesn't want you running after her, Thorald. She's not ready to see you."

"Is she that angry?"

"Give her some time. You know Grelka. It's easier for her to feel anger than to feel—other things. But I tell you what. We kill this dragon and we both survive, maybe I'll drop you a hint."

"A hint? Come on, Aela."

"Sorry, that's the best I can do."

"No, it's not." She gave him a lupine grin and set a pace that Thorald, even with his longer legs, had to struggle to match.

* * *

The Western Watchtower was built of stone. It couldn't burn. But trees could burn. So could carts, sheds, barrels and people.

"I guess it got tired of circling," Aela said. Her voice was light but her lips were set in a stern line as they surveyed the devastation. The grass around the tower was patched with fire. Every fire held a body. No one's left alive, Thorald thought. It was Helgen all over again.

"Where is it?" he asked. "If it's gone—"

Aela walked silently through the long grass. She examined several of the bodies.

"It kills," she said. "But it does not eat what it kills. It destroys as if it glories in destruction. Why? It acts more like a man than a beast. Or perhaps something else entirely."

"It's mad," he said.

"Mad. Even beasts go mad." She stopped. Her nostrils flared. He took a step forward and she held up her hand to stop him. She looked at something wet on the ground. She stooped and touched the blood with her finger, sniffed. Her head moved slowly from side to side and then, even more slowly, her eyes scanned upward. Up to the top of the tower. From where he stood he was at the wrong angle to see anything but the stone parapet. She was too close also but her nostrils flared again.

"It's up there," she whispered. She rapidly strung her bow. "It's been wounded. I'll keep watch here. Go meet the others, tell them to fan out. Circle the tower, but quietly. We don't want to scare it off."

Scare it off? Thorald had to choke back a nervous laugh. Could two puny humans frighten such a formidable creature? Did it even feel fear? He headed back along the road, and the feeling of eyes on him burned into his back and sped his steps. He cursed Aela for scaring him with no proof the beast was still there at all. When he reached the miniscule cover of a straggly tree, he turned and studied the top of the tower. No signs of movement. Was something there? His eyes traced the outline of the stonework. There, was that a crumbled wall or was it the edge of a huge shoulder? Didn't the light reflect rather strangely?

If it's up there it's crouched down, hiding, he realized. Perhaps it was wounded, as Aela thought. Or perhaps it set an ambush, waiting for the city's defenders to arrive. Or, he thought, maybe it's taking a nap after a hard morning's exercise.

Skjor and the Companions beat Irileth out of the city. In addition to their usual weapons, they all carried bows, crossbows or spears. Skjor nodded when Thorald told them Aela's plan.

"We'll circle around the back, from the west," he said. "Irileth's people are right behind us. Have them come in straight, from the road. When everyone's in place, we'll see if we can't lure it down."

Thorald walked up to meet Irileth. Her eyes burned like embers as she took in the destruction. "Any survivors in the tower?" she asked.

"We haven't heard anyone," Thorald said. "Aela thinks the dragon's on the roof. Wounded."

"Indeed. If so, it was hale enough to fly up there. We can only reach the roof through an open staircase through the tower. There is no cover whatsoever. We need to get it on the ground. Any suggestions?"

Thorald groaned inwardly. "One," he said. "And it might not work."  
Irileth told her men to be quiet but Thorald could hear whispers behind him as he stepped into the open. He made sure his sword was loose in its scabbard.

"Cooooeeeee!" he hollered. Thorald had always had a loud, clear voice. "Dragon! Show yourself!"

Nothing. He waited. The silence seemed to mock him. He took a deep breath. I guess I have to do it, Thorald thought. I hope I still can. And if it's not up there and I make a fool of myself…

"FUS RO DAH!"

His Shout slammed into the parapet. Three stone blocks broke loose and flew off the top of the wall in a shower of grit. Thorald's chest burned and his throat flamed. All the quiet whispers turned to shocked silence.

Thorald strained his ears. The wind almost covered a slight rustling sound. Something moved on the top of the tower. A giant golden eye peered down, two giant eyes, and then a long narrow maw full of long sharp teeth.

Aela was right as usual, Thorald thought. The dragon's head craned over the stonework above. Its brown scales glinted like bronze in the sunlight. Bronze. Not black. This was not the dragon from Helgen. This was a totally different dragon. That meant there were two of them.

At least two, his frightened mind whispered. At _least_ two.

The dragon opened its mouth. Thorald prepared to dodge but the dragon didn't flame him. It spoke.

"DOVAHKIIN?"

He didn't know what it meant but the word made his bones shudder. He beckoned with his arms.

"Come here!"

The dragon cocked its head, for all the world like a dog listening for its master's whistle. Then it sprang off the top of the watchtower. It flapped its great wings once, twice, and hit the ground in front of Thorald with a thump he felt through his boots. His running boots, for he hadn't waited, he'd already darted away.

"Archers!" Irileth cried. The Companions had already started firing. Thorald heard the twang of bows and several thunks that he hoped meant the dragon had been hit. He turned. The dragon gave him a long stare and then it sank back into a crouch. The muscles in its great thighs bunched.

"It's going to fly," he hollered. "Hit the wings, keep it down!"

One of Irileth's men ran forward with an axe. He struck the wing in an attempt to split the thick membrane. The dragon whipped its head about, fast and agile as a serpent. The guard shrieked when jaws clamped down on his shield arm. Thorald couldn't risk a stroke. He ran in and slammed the pommel of his sword into the dragon's lower jaw. Lightning flared from the pommel stone. The flash should have blinded him but it didn't—he sensed it through his eyelids. He must have blinked at precisely the right moment.

The dragon opened its jaws and staggered back. The guard dropped from its mouth like a bloody dishrag. Arrows continued to fly. The dragon's sides and wings bristled with bolts and arrows and blood dripped down its flanks.

The dragon twisted to look at Thorald. It scrabbled forward, walking on the edge of its wings like a man crawling on elbows and knees. Even with this awkward gait, it was fast. Its mouth opened. It's going to flame me, Thorald had time to think. And then a dwarven arrow plunged deep into the dragon's right eye. That would be Aela, he thought. The dragon shrieked in pain and outrage. Its head jerked towards him again.

"Dovahkiin, no!" it cried. Was that an appeal or a curse? Was it calling for help? Thorald didn't know.

But the time he'd spent as a child, studying the great skull over the jarl's throne, came back to him. He and Avulstein had boosted each other up so they could touch it. He could see the shape of the jaw in his mind. And he ran forward, under that great seeking head, just as another arrow, elven this time, sank into the other eye. Irileth and Aela, what a pair of showoffs. He thrust upwards. Like a hot awl plunged into leather, his sword cut through the thin scales of the jaw. With sparks flying all around his hands, he thrust up through the roof of the dragon's mouth and up, further, into its brain.

"Everybody, get back!" he heard Irileth roar. Power ran from his sword into his hands. Power slammed into his body, into his own brain, like a wave of searing blinding fire. And it burned him, burned him from the inside out until the fire and the pain burst out his mouth in a scream. He reeled backwards, disarmed, with his sword jammed through the dragon's head. And still the light swirled around him and around the dragon. Flames everywhere. He thought he was dying, but the flames burned the dragon, burned its flesh away, burned and burned until scales rained down from what had been the dragon's flesh and his blade dropped out from the dragon's naked skull.

Thorald staggered again and fell forward onto his knees. It had been very old, this dragon. Mirmulnir. A name with a meaning. Mirmulnir. He felt the words inside him, not one but three. Mir Mul Nir. The dragon's name had a feeling of loyalty and strength. But that was his life. Now the dragon's strength was gone. Burned away. Stolen.

After a moment of silence that seemed to stretch the length of the world, he tried to stand. Too dizzy. He crawled forward to his sword. He felt better when his hands curled around the hilt.

Aela ran to him. "Are you hurt?" He shook his head. "Then get up." She grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. He swayed, blinked, looked at the sword in his hand. Sheathed it, on the second try. It wasn't just his hands that shook, it was his whole body.

Irileth crouched by the wounded guard, who lay in an alarmingly large puddle of blood.

"Am I going to lose my arm, housecarl?" His voice was little more than a whisper.

"Not if I can help it," Irileth said. She turned to the closest guard. "Bring Danica from the temple," she told him. Her brow furrowed as she took a potion from her belt pouch. "If you can drink this down it will keep you stable until the healer arrives."

Another guard reported there were no survivors in the watchtower. Irileth nodded, unsurprised by this news. With her attention diverted, the other men felt free to talk.

"It's like the old stories."

"Did you see what he did? He took the dragon's power."

"Thorald took its very soul."

"He's the Dragonborn. Got to be. You heard him Shout."

"Dragonborn! Like Tiber Septim himself, when he was a man."

"Tiber Septim never killed any dragons."

"There weren't any then, you idiot."

Aela raised her eyebrows. "Dragonborn?" she mouthed. Thorald flushed.

"Be silent!" Irileth commanded. "You, there! Put that down, this instant, right back where you got it." A shamefaced guard dropped the dragon scale he was tossing from hand to hand. "We are not here to collect souvenirs. You, go to the Hall of the Dead and warn Andurs that we have work for him. Then come back with a wagon so we can take our brothers home." Her grim wave took in the bodies in the grass.

"Irileth," Thorald said. Her attention was still on her men.

"The rest of you, see that this area is secured. In no time at all we will have every gawker in Whiterun down here. The jarl will want to see this and so will the court wizard. I do not want the dragon disturbed until they get here. Keep everyone clear."

"Irileth," Thorald said again.

"You've done a fine job, all of you, and my personal thanks to the Companions who joined us here," she continued. She gave Thorald a nod. "This may be a creature of legend but we have all seen that we can kill it. That's good enough for me."

"Irileth!" Thorald grabbed her arm. The housecarl frowned. In a hoarse whisper, he said, "This is not the dragon from Helgen."

Now he had her attention. "What?"

"It's a different dragon! The one at Helgen was black. And it was much larger."

Irileth gave him a red unblinking stare. "There's a bigger one skulking in the mountains?"

"At least one."

"There could be more? Oblivion!" She looked down at her injured guard. Her lips pursed. "I'll tell the jarl personally. I'm sure he will want to come down here right away and I don't want him going anywhere without a proper guard."

"Can I take some scales? I want to show them to my da."

"Yes, of course. What is this Dragonborn talk? Some Nord legend?"

"An old one."

"Did you truly eat that dragon's soul?"

"I don't know!"

"We'll study this—carcass—see if we can find any weak spots. I'd be glad to hear Eorlund's thoughts on how best to penetrate these scales. What happened to its flesh? Is this what happens when dragons die? Or is it something you did to it?"

"I don't know!"

"Perhaps Farengar will know something of use."

She left one of her men in charge before she left for Dragonsreach. Thorald joined the Companions as they headed back towards the mead hall.

"Well," Aela said. "That was interesting. Strange that the flesh burned away. Now we'll never know what dragon tastes like." She took one of the scales from Thorald, looked at it and handed it back. "Did you get a sample of bone as well?"

"No, should I?"

"Yes, you should. Here. It's a piece of the tail." They walked on. "Too bad Grelka wasn't here. We could have used her bow. I wonder what she'd think of this scale? Remember that mudcrab armor she made?"

"And the chaurus. I remember."

"She told me there's some fellow in Riften who knows how to make armor out of bone."

Thorald frowned. "Out of bone? How?"

"Some ancient Dunmer secret. Apparently they grind up the bones and glue them together. I wonder if you could grind up dragon bones. Think they'd be harder than other bones?"

When they parted at the mead hall, Aela said, "You've had your hint, by the way."

"My hint?" For a moment Thorald had forgotten. "You gave me a hint? About Grelka? What was it?"

Aela rolled her eyes and walked away.

"She's in Riften?" he shouted after her. "Is that it?" But Aela didn't answer.

Thorald headed on up to the smithy where, dragon or no dragon, his da was still at work. The news beat him there, of course.

"Sword ok?" Eorlund asked.

"More than ok," Thorald said. "It was perfect." He handed the scales and bone to his father. Eorlund turned them in his hands, studied them, took a hammer to a scale. It flexed under the strength of his blow.

"Men made armor from dragon scale once," his da said.

Thorald's eyes gleamed. "Can you?"

"No smith alive knows how to craft this." His lips turned in what approached a smile, a very tiny smile. "There's one who might learn."

"Grelka."

"Aye. She should come home."


	12. A Terrible Mistake

_Author's Note: The Imperial coin (septim) has what looks like Tiber Septim on one side and Akatosh in dragon form on the other. _

**12: A Terrible Mistake**

"Miss, you must get up. You mustn't sleep here."

The voice was far away and echoed like words from the dream world. Reality was horror and fear. Reality was pain and fury. Fear and fury. Even dreaming, deep in her bones, Grelka knew that fear and fury were two sides of the same coin.

Thump, thump, thump. A dull rhythm of breathlessness and pain. The coin glittered and spun. One side, a face. A screaming face, eyes burning, mouth open wide in a rictus of mindless wrath. Thump, thump. The coin spun. And there was the dragon. Its wings beat the air with the labored tempo of a terrified heart. The dragon swooped down, snatched her up in its huge claws. And it squeezed…

"Miss, are you ill? It's not safe for you here."

…squeezed the life out of her. The dragon bent its horned head to peer more closely. Those giant alien eyes—those horns, those fangs, those frightening fangs, so close…

"Miss, you must wake up!"

Something grasped her shoulder. Shook her. It hurt. Grelka's eyes, gluey and sticky, slowly peeled open.

Eerily backlit, an alien face peered into her face. A clawed hand reached for her. Grelka shrieked. The face jerked away. And Grelka realized it was no dragon that leaned over her but an Argonian. She felt painfully, horribly sick—her head pounded, her body ached and her gut heaved an ominous warning.

And she had absolutely no idea where she was. It was dark, damp and the air had a stale moldy smell. The only light was from the small lantern the Argonian had set on the ground nearby.

"Miss, you can't stay here."

She blinked at him."Nghn." Her tongue felt like a washcloth, a stiff dirty washcloth. She tried again. "Whuh?"

The Argonian's eyes were strange and his face was expressionless. "You are in the Ratway."

"Ratway?"she mumbled. Her thoughts didn't stream like thoughts do. They clicked over, one at a time. A way for rats? There was something horribly wrong in her gut, like some living thing, twisting and roiling, trying to escape. She was in the Ratway? A rat was like a small skeever. Right. "Whuh?" she asked. Her mouth wasn't working right. No part of her was working right.

"You're in the sewers under the city," the Argonian said.

"Erk." She swallowed to keep from drooling. Whatever was coming up, was coming up now.

"Are you injured?"

Grelka crawled to her knees. Her stomach heaved. She retched a few times and finally vomited a burning nasty stream. How such foulness could come from her own body was a mystery she didn't want to solve. She got to her feet unsteadily—her back, her knees, her gut hurt—and lurched away from the stinking mess. Even her hands hurt. The Argonian recoiled several steps as well. His tail twitched.

"Miss, you should check your coin purse. I'm afraid you've been set upon and robbed."

Her thoughts clicked over a bit faster. Set upon and robbed? In the sewers? Had she been left here to die? Gods, she was in Riften, of course she'd been robbed. She frantically patted her pockets. Stendarr's mercy. Coin purse, gone. In increasing panic, she felt her neck but the chain was gone. The wedding rings were gone."Gone," she muttered. But there was something thrust down her shirt. A piece of paper.

The Argonian watched her movements carefully. Very carefully. It was only much later that she realized he may have been afraid. "You'd best report this to the guard," was all he said.

"Light?" She pointed at his lantern. He held it out to her. Crazy shadows swooped across the damp ground. Divines, she'd been lying in a wet sewer. In her armor. At least she hadn't been stripped naked.

The paper was a bill of sale. She blinked to focus her eyes, trying to make sense of the thing. A bill of sale? Had she bought something? Why couldn't she remember? What did she remember? She squinted. Divines, her head hurt. Her lips tried to sound out the words.

Sold, one horse, as described in the referenced lineage papers. Known as Frost.

"No. No, no, no." If she'd been drunk, she was now shocked sober.

"Perhaps you should sit down," the Argonian said. "You look—"

"Get me out of here," Grelka said. A cramp bent her over but she forced herself to straighten against it. A rough pant and she was able to speak again. "There's been a terrible mistake."

* * *

Babette timed her entry into Windhelm for the busy part of the morning. Her cheeks were humanly rosy, courtesy of a convenient nest of bandits, and she pulled her travel hood to shade her eyes from the sun. The guards took no notice of her. Adults rarely took much notice of children, except for those perverted adults who preyed upon them. And they only saw what they wished to see, not what was there.

At first glance Windhelm seemed unchanged since her last visit. She'd expected that, actually. Traditions were strong in Windhelm, they always had been. But as she walked the crowded streets she saw a few differences. The city guard wore Stormcloak colors. What sort of man was this Ulfric Stormcloak, that an entire army should name themselves for him? She didn't think she'd ever met him although she did vaguely recall his father, the Great Bear of Windhelm. As she walked past the smithy, the steady hammering seemed to speak out, war, war, war.

Babette didn't care for war. How wasteful and disagreeably impersonal, to spill blood over politics. Death on a large scale had no appeal. Sithis was not honored by such.

She peered through the apothecary window several minutes before entering. She waited for Nurelion, the old Altmer alchemist, to go upstairs. Stooped and ill but still alive, after all these decades. He probably wouldn't remember her, since she hadn't been here in years, but she hadn't lived through the last era by skimping on basic precautions. His assistant seemed able enough.

"My ma sent me for blisterwort and wheat," she told him in a piping voice. "My little sister has a sore throat."

"That's a good choice," he said. "Twenty septims." He looked at the coins on her open palm. "I'd be happy to mix that up for you. No charge."

While he worked, competently enough, she turned the conversation to the Aretino family.

"Sad business, that," he said. "The mother sickened last winter. Nurelion did what he could for her but she died." With a little prodding, he told her more. "Her husband worked for the East Empire Trading Company and I believe he was lost at sea. The boy was orphaned."

"No one at the company would help out with the boy?"

"The East Empire doesn't have much of a presence in Windhelm since the war," he said. "We get our supplies from local traders now."

"No one could be found to foster him here? He has a house, doesn't he?"

"Ah, yes, well, he is an Imperial child and—" The man coughed and gave her a look, one non-Nord to another. His own name, Quintus, was surely Imperial. She wondered what prejudices he faced here in Ulfric Stormcloak's city. "The steward thought it best he go to the orphanage in Riften. Here, this is ready." He gave her the potion. "Come back if your mother needs anything else."

Others in town had plenty more to say about the Aretino boy and their gossip centered on the Black Sacrament. Babette was a bit baffled. This Aretino boy spoke of this openly? And no one intervened? The general opinion seemed to be that if he was ungrateful enough to run away from the orphanage, let him starve to death in his cursed old house.

His door was locked. There were no guards around, and passersby avoided the area. She knocked. No answer but there was someone inside. She could sense him. She knocked again.

"Go away," a scared voice said.

"Open this door." She put a touch of compulsion in her voice. She heard the bolt scrape.

"Who are you?" He seemed surprised to see another child. She gave him a quick look—frightened, defiant, poorly dressed and probably hungry—and then she brushed past him. There was a faint odor of blood from upstairs. She followed the scent.

"You can't just come barging in here. This is my house, you know." He clattered up the stairs after her. She easily sidestepped his move to grab her. Nonhuman reflexes were such a boon.

"Aventus Aretino."

"You know my name? How do you know my name?"

She traced the scent to a small room at the end of the hall. "My, my, someone has been naughty."

The Black Sacrament. He had the proper book, open to the proper prayer. He had the dagger and the nightshade. The candles, the effigy, the skull. He'd actually done it! For someone his age to have harvested all the ingredients—that took enormous resolution. Many adults felt children were incapable of such focus and anger. Babette had been a child once. She knew better.

Babette wrinkled her brow. Something was wrong here.

"That's not a human heart," she said slowly. It was a cow's heart. And she was pretty sure that lump of meat was venison. And—"Chicken bones? Is this some kind of a joke?"

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" he asked. Anger had chased off his fear.

"You look like you're pouting. What in Sithis' name do you think you'll accomplish with this fake sacrament?"

"I only did it to get people's attention. And you know what? Nobody cares! Nobody cares what happens to me or what's going on in Honorhall."

"What's Honorhall?"

"The orphanage. The terrible, terrible orphanage. Why are you here? Are you going to stop me?"

"No."

"You don't care either, do you?"

"Why should I care?" Babette said. "I don't know you. What I care about is this." She gestured at the fake sacrament. "The Black Sacrament isn't a game. This isn't a toy for an attention-seeking brat. You call upon the Dark Brotherhood at your own peril."

"Oh, yeah? What are you going to do about it? Are you going to tell the Dark Brotherhood?"

"I _am_ the Dark Brotherhood."

It was a dramatic moment until the boy snickered."You're just a kid like me."

Babette let her hood fall backwards. She stepped into the light. She smiled.

"Your eyes! Your teeth!" His eyes were as round as septims. And then he gave a gap-toothed grin. "Are you a vampire? That is so awesome!"

"So," Babette said, once they'd settled around the kitchen table. She'd graciously given permission for Aventus to throw out the trappings of the false sacrament. They were starting to stink, he said. Starting? They'd been stinking for quite some time, she thought. "Tell me about this contract of yours."

"Contract?"

"Who do you want killed?"

"You have to kill Grelod the Kind!"

"Grelod the Kind? Now I know this is a joke."

"It's not! She's evil!" Aventus cried.

"Who is she?"

"She's in charge of the orphanage. Honorhall. In Riften. I hate Riften! Everyone thinks she is so nice for taking us in. She's not nice at all! The food is awful, she beats us all the time, even the little ones. And we have to work."

Babette felt her eyes start to roll back. Astrid was right, bless her black heart. Just a spoiled brat after all. "So, what, you have to make your bed? Mop the floor?"

"No! Well, yeah, we have to do that kind of stuff too. But we get sent out to places around town. Some of the little ones have to clean chimneys. They light a fire under you if you don't go up fast enough. I'm too big for that, thank Stendarr. I mostly worked out at the bee farm. I bet I've been stung a hundred times. A thousand! The farm is bad but the meadery is even worse. It's really dark and dirty down in the basement where the kegs are. The skeevers are this big!" Although they were alone, he dropped his voice. "And there's even worse things, I think. Sometimes they take kids out and they never come back. Grelod says they ran away. But she has such a look when she says it." He shuddered.

"You get paid for this work?" Aventus gave her a cynical look. "Someone gets paid," Babette said thoughtfully. "How interesting. Does that mean you don't have any coin? How are you going to pay the Brotherhood, if we accept the contract?"

"I have this family heirloom." He went to a bookcase, bent down and pulled out something hidden behind it. It was a silver platter with the East Empire Trading Company seal. Probably handed out as a service reward. There were people who collected such things, but probably not many in Stormcloak territory. Here it would be worth little more than its weight in silver. Astrid would have a fit if I took this contract, she thought. Because if someone was making a profit off an orphanage in Riften, chances were excellent that the Black-Briar family was involved.

Over the years, the Black-Briars had thrown a fair amount of business the Brotherhood's way. Babette couldn't stand any of them. They made terrible clients. They complained about how the job was done and they dickered over the price. Murder should be a sacred offering to Sithis. The Black-Briars wanted their murder wholesale. Astrid was too conciliating and Astrid was too quick to settle for coin. They might as well call themselves Astrid's Assassins, blades for hire.

Babette knew Astrid only wanted what was best for her family. The problem was that Astrid was convinced she knew exactly what that was, better than anyone. She cared nothing for the past. But Babette knew the Black-Briars. People like Maven Black-Briar also cared nothing for the past, only for their own desires. Maven had no respect for the Dark Brotherhood. To her, their sacred mission was nothing more than a means to an end.

Murder just wasn't fun anymore.

This boy may have tried to contact the Night Mother with a cow's heart but that was better than placing an order with a sack of septims. Babette held out her hand.

"We have a contract."

The boy could tell her little of Grelod's movements or routine but that didn't matter. Babette preferred to gather her own intelligence. After all, if there was one place a little girl could blend in without being noticed, surely that place was an orphanage.

"I want to come with you," Aventus said.

"To Riften? You said you hated Riften."

"I do. But I want to see it done. I want to see her dead." A beat. "I want to help."

"Think you have the stomach for murder?"

"I don't know." He leaned in closer. "I want to find out."

"You'll just get in the way."

"I won't. I won't slow you down." She raised a brow. "Well, not unless you fly or something."

She grinned. "No, I don't fly. I have a horse."

His face fell. "I don't."

She relented. "He's a big horse. Big enough for both of us."

And he would slow her down, of course. He wasn't used to riding, and he had all those human needs to eat, sleep and eliminate, and those took time. But she found she didn't mind. This contract had almost a holiday atmosphere. It was good to be off, ready to do Sithis' work, without anyone hanging over her shoulder, hovering and protective.

She was so tired of being protected. It felt good to be in charge.

"So in all this time, no one has reported Grelod? She's basically using you as slave labor, you know. That's not legal."

"The guards know! They laugh! They call her Grelod the Kind to be funny! That's what it's like in Riften."

From what she knew of Riften, Babette didn't find this shockingly difficult to believe.

"That's why I made sure everyone knew I was doing the Black Sacrament. No one in Riften cares but I thought if people in Windhelm knew that Grelod was so bad that someone wanted to kill her—well, I thought someone would look into it. The steward or someone. But they don't care either. They only care about their war. No one cares about a bunch of kids."

* * *

The Ratway was a dark, dirty maze but the Argonian led Grelka through it like he lived there. And maybe he did. For once they had emerged from the sewers to the walkway over the canal and he pointed out the stairway up to the market square, he went back into the Ratway. I hadn't even asked his name, she realized. And then a stab of suspicion—what if he was the one who robbed me? She shook her head. At least he hadn't left her there to die.

The canal smelled little better than the Ratway tunnels. Like a big open sewer, she thought, and even by moonlight the dank waters looked most uninviting. Both moons were out. How late is it, she wondered. She trudged up rickety wooden stairs and every step amplified her aches. Had she been knocked out? As bad as her head hurt, she couldn't feel any lumps or sore places.

The lights were on in the inn. The market square was empty. She saw a guard standing duty. She wondered if she should report the robbery now but the man gave her such a scowling look when she approached that she decided to go clean up first. She wondered if it was too late to get a bath. She'd pay extra, whatever they asked. Her coin purse was gone but luckily Balimund had warned her of Riften's pickpockets. Most of her coin lay hidden in her travel bag in her room.

She pushed her way into the inn and the door seemed ridiculously heavy. Inside, she got a better look at herself. How did she get so dirty? Had she been dragged through that filthy sewer? Her knuckles were inexplicably scraped up. The innkeeper was still up, thank Stendarr, washing dishes in the bar sink.

"Keerava," Grelka said thankfully. "I need—"

The Argonian whipped around. There was no expression on her face but her lips pulled back from her teeth.

"You! You can't come in here!"

Grelka turned her head to see if someone had come in behind her. "What?" But the innkeeper swung around the counter and came straight for her.

"Get out of my inn."

"What happened? What's wrong?"

"I mean it, get out now or I'll call the guard. Talen-Jei!"

"Now you hold on. I've been attacked and robbed and my things are upstairs. I've paid for my room! You can't throw me out for no reason."

"After what you've done? Oh, yes I can!"

"I haven't done anything!"

"Are you still drunk? You attacked my guests, you did a lot of damage to the place. I called the guard but you ran out before they got here."

"Drunk? No! That's impossible."

"Impossible, is it? I had a room full of witnesses! You can ask Mjoll—you attacked her like a wild beast. Or Marcurio, Bolli, Bersi Honey-Hand. They all saw what you did. Now get out."

It couldn't be true. She didn't even know these people. It couldn't be. Was the Argonian lying? She must be lying but why?

"Gods. I don't understand. I'll get my things and go."

"All your things are gone."

Grelka's eyes narrowed.

"Now you wait just a minute there. Is this another shakedown? What is it with you people in this city? I remember being in here earlier. Some man bought me a drink." What was his name? That scruffy Nord fellow. Said he had news of Mallory but then—what? It had turned out to be the wrong Mallory. Something like that. And he'd bought her a drink. The drink!

"You put something in my drink, didn't you? By the Divines! You've robbed me!"

"That's it," Keerava said. "I'm calling the guards now."

"You just do that." Grelka crossed her arms over her chest.

The wait was short and then the world went to Oblivion. The guards didn't believe her. They took that thieving lizard's word over her own and they threw her out of the inn. Told her if she went back to the Bee and Barb, they'd lock her in jail. They're all in on it, she fumed. This is a city of thieves and they're all in on it. She ran down to the stables, her heart already in her boots. Frost was gone. Her horse was gone with all his gear. A shamefaced Hofgrir told her men in Black-Briar livery had shown him the paperwork and had taken the horse away. Where, he did not know. She'd lost everything. Her horse. Her money, her clothes, her weapons. Divines! Her tools were gone, too. She'd lost everything.


	13. Leverage

**13: Leverage**

The rest of the staff had been dismissed, leaving Ancano and Elenwen at the embassy's formal dining table. Ancano loathed her breakfast meetings. To degrade a meal by working through it was a repulsive gesture towards so-called efficiency. Surely the First Emissary had lived far too long amongst Imperials. The others were in the kitchen now, neglecting their work and surreptitiously filling their rumbling bellies while he endured this private briefing. All left her meetings hungry for none dared get caught with their mouth full should Elenwen suddenly call on them to report. So much for efficiency.

Elenwen began the lengthy process of cracking the knuckles on her right hand, one delicate joint at a time. Crunch, crunch, snap. Ancano suppressed a wince. He couldn't wait to get back on the road.

"I've had news from our informant in Whiterun," she said. "I believe I have identified your Nord mercenary."

Ancano sat up straighter. "Who is he?"

But she frowned. "Is there any truth to this rumor that Ulfric Shouted the dragon into obedience?"

"I've heard that too. I didn't witness any more than you did."

She tapped the table, in thought. "If I had known he had this ability, this Shout, I would have made him demonstrate it for me while he was under my—care." While she tortured him, Ancano knew. "He kept it a secret until the Markarth Incident. I wonder why?"

"That was when you lost control of him, isn't it?" Elenwen glared but didn't answer. "You don't suppose—"

"What?"

"Well, this dragon appearing so timely—you don't suppose there's anything to this Talos business? They say the Septims—"

"There is absolutely no evidence that Ulfric possesses so much as a drop of Septim blood. And we have looked carefully, believe me. There are no Septim heirs in Skyrim. The diviners are quite certain of that. The Septim line is dead. Most tellingly, Ulfric himself makes no such claim."

"If Ulfric can control this dragon—what a weapon it would make. It destroyed an Imperial fortress."

"I'm aware," she said drily. "If the Stormcloaks control this dragon, the sooner we can take it from them, the better. I need a dragon expert and I need one now."

"Is there such a thing?"

"Perhaps. I'll look into dragons. I need you to look into this Thorald Gray-Mane."

"Is that the mercenary's name? Sounds familiar."

"It should. He's the son of that blacksmith the Nords all talk about, the one who works some ancient mystic forge in Whiterun."

"A mystic forge?" He shook his head. "Nords." They saw the divine in everything, no matter how unlikely. They even called one of their own a god. As if a man could be a god. Ridiculous.

"More importantly, he is the nephew of Vignar Gray-Mane. He's known as Vignar the Revered and he has the potential to be quite troublesome. He was once a great warrior in the Companions. He is a close personal friend of Ulfric Stormcloak and he is the man who stands ready to replace Jarl Balgruuf, should Whiterun Hold tire of his neutrality and declare for the Stormcloaks."

"Vignar Gray-Mane," Ancano said. Yes, he had heard of him.

"From all accounts, Thorald looks to be his heir."

"If we had Thorald under our control, what excellent leverage he would make," Ancano said.

"My thought as well."

"Where is he now?"

"You're going to find out. Track him down and bring him to Northwatch Keep. I want regular reports from you. If I learn anything here, I'll send coded messages to the usual drops. And Ancano." She smiled and began to crack the knuckles on her left hand. "I've found the coldest, most miserable rock in Skyrim for your next posting, should you fail me. Ever hear of Winterhold?"

* * *

Grelka thought her head was going to explode. Not only was her fury rapidly heating to incandescence, her body gave increasing protests. She hurt. How could she be bruised all over and not remember how that happened?

The guards laughed at her. They _laughed_.

They said she was lucky Keerava hadn't pressed charges. They said she was lucky the other people she assaulted didn't press charges. Other people? She'd assaulted other people? What nonsense was this?

She went to the guard captain. She showed him the phony bill of sale.

"This isn't my handwriting."

"I don't know your handwriting," the captain said. "But I know the steward's. Right here. Looks official to me."

"I didn't sell my horse. It's a lie!"

The guard captain gave her a chilly look. "Make a nuisance of yourself and you'll be taken in for vagrancy. I think it's best if you get out of town. Today."

"I'd like nothing better than to get out of the cesspool, as soon as I get my horse back."

"We'll be watching you. Troublemakers don't fare well in this town. Best you remember that."

She went to the steward. Anuriel was her name. At first she refused to see her but Grelka made a pest of herself until she was finally granted a few precious moments.

"You did appear inebriated when you came before me yesterday but there's no law that says you can't do something foolish, now, is there?"

"Inebriated? Are you saying I was drunk?"

"I'm saying you smelled like a brewery and staggered like a sailor on shore leave."

"When was this? You didn't try to stop me?"

"What right had I to stop you?" The steward lifted delicate eyebrows. "I can assure you, the sale is perfectly legal. You may, of course, approach the Black-Briar family and offer to buy the horse back, but they are under no obligation to sell him."

"I can't. All my money was stolen."

"Oh, dear. How unfortunate. You have reported this crime, I hope?"

Was that a smirk? Did that elf dare smirk at her? Grelka felt like her eyes were ready to shoot flames. She stormed out of the palace. She stormed down the walk towards the market square. She almost ran over a large woman, whose war paint inexpertly covered a painful-looking black eye.

"Is your name Grelka?" the woman said.

"Why?"

"We need to talk."

"How do you know who I am?"

"I am Mjoll. I was introduced to your fist last night. I'd like to get to know the rest of you." Grelka gave her a suspicious look. "I know you're in trouble," she said. "I'd like to help."

Mjoll claimed to be an old friend of Balimund's and took her to his house next to the smithy to talk. The healer had released him. He was pale and tired from the poisoning and determined to blame himself for what happened to her.

"Is it true then? I was fighting last night?" Grelka looked at her swollen knuckles. "That's impossible. I don't do things like that."

"What do you remember?" Mjoll asked.

Grelka had been thinking of little else. She remembered the trip to Shor's Stone and her return to Riften. The Bee and Barb. Putting her things in her room. And then a black hole swallowed everything until she woke in the Ratway. Everything gone. What would she have done when she left her room? Gone down for supper? Surely she would have gone down for supper and maybe a drink after her long day. That was only logical. Something itched at the back of her mind. A drink. Someone bought her a drink. "Some man said he had news of the smith I've been looking for, that Mallory fellow."

"You're looking for Delvin Mallory?" Mjoll asked in surprise. Balimund and Grelka both looked at her.

"You know him?" Balimund asked.

"Delvin Mallory is no smith," Mjoll said. "He's one of the leaders of the Thieves Guild. He lives down in the Ratway with the rest of them."

"The Thieves Guild!" Balimund said.

"Some Argonian found me in the Ratway," Grelka said.

"Yes, Madesi told me about that," Mjoll said. "That's why I've been looking for you. He said you looked very ill."

Grelka frowned. "But it's not Delvin Mallory I'm looking for. Mallory is right but the first name was different. One of those funny Breton names—Hatter, Booter, something like that. And the man last night said oh, you're looking for his brother. So I guess I'm looking for Delvin's brother? He said he'd left Riften a long time ago." Why could she remember this when she remembered nothing else? She and this man had talked. And then he ordered a drink. And then—nothing.

"Who was this man you spoke to?" Mjoll asked.

"He was Nord. Reddish hair. He told me his name," she said with a wan smile. What was it? "I don't quite—"

"Was it Brynjolf?"

"I think so."

Mjoll frowned. "Grelka, I think you were drugged last night."

"Drugged." She thought. "I knew it! Those damned Argonians! I knew that innkeeper was acting funny."

Mjoll shook her head. "Keerava wouldn't drug you. She's one of us. No, I'm afraid it was Brynjolf. He, too, is one of the leaders of the Thieves Guild."

"Keerava threw me out of the inn! All my things are gone—why would she let thieves take my things from her inn if she's not part of it?"

"She's afraid. Many in Riften are afraid. The Black-Briars are the power in this town, and even the Thieves Guild serves them. Keerava has family just across the border and they hold this over her head. There are some of us here trying to band together to stand up to the corruption in this city, but it is very hard when what was done to you can be done to anyone."

"They took my horse! My father gave me that horse. He was special."

"I understand it was valuable?" Mjoll said.

"Yes. Is that why they targeted me?"

"Probably," Balimund said.

"But they didn't just take my horse and my money. They took everything I have. They took my bow. It was enchanted!"

And what a fuss she'd had with Eorlund over that. He was of the mind that magic was for elves, who used enchantment to make an inferior weapon acceptable. Ah, she had told him, but look what enchantment does to a superior weapon! She felt a surge of anger and homesickness rise up and choke her. And that reminded her of the final outrage: "They took my tools!"

"I'll loan you some tools," Balimund said.

Grelka sighed. "Eorlund made those tools from Skyforge steel. He stoked the fire with the sacred wood of the Gildergreen. He gave them to me to mark the end of my apprenticeship. They were to last me my entire life." She took an angry swipe at the tear that dared form. "But thank you. I'm sure this seems silly to you."

"Not to me," Mjoll said. "When I lost my sword, Grimsever, it was like an amputation. I'd lost a piece of my life. I will never be the girl I was then. But I still have my life and I have made a new life for myself. Grieve. But do not despair."

"We have to fight back. Where are these thieves? I'll find them. I'll pay them back for what they've done."

"We will fight back," Mjoll said. "But carefully. Remember, the Black-Briars control the city guard and have great influence over the jarl. We will fight back but we must not become the lawless beasts that we fight."

"But you said the law is on their side."

"For now it is."

"So we are powerless."

"For now we must help each other and wait for the proper time to act."

"How is that any different from being powerless?"

"We have sent petitions to the High King."

"The High King is dead," Grelka said flatly.

"That is why we must wait." Mjoll fingered her black eye. "We would love to have a fighter like you."

"I'm not a fighter. I hate fighting. I haven't punched someone since I was a kid. Well, you know."

"If you want to leave, I'll pay your carriage fare back to Whiterun," Balimund said. "I wouldn't blame you for wanting to go home."

"I'm not leaving without my horse." She groaned. "But I don't know where he is. I don't have any idea how to get him back. Oblivion, I don't even have a place to stay or a change of clothes. The guard captain threatened to take me in as a vagrant."

"We have some ideas about that, Grelka," Balimund said.

"We've rented you a room at Haelga's Bunkhouse. You're paid up for the week. It's not pretty but it's cheap."

"And I could use your help in the smithy. Anything you make, you can sell in the market. There's an open stand available."

"I can't accept all this."

"Of course you can."

And she did. It was that or slink back to Whiterun.

* * *

Once again, Anuriel found herself kicking her heels in the Black-Briar parlor. She only had routine paperwork and reports today, so unless Maven had much to go over, the meeting should be quick. She hoped so. She and Unmid had a discreet meeting planned for mid-morning.

Raised voices from the dining room—Maven and Ingun, she thought, going at it again. She moved silently to the door and cracked it open.

"I can't go to the meadery today," Ingun said. "Father will just have to do without me. My experiments are at a delicate stage."

"How much longer do you intend to waste your life concocting your foolish little potions?"

"It's not a waste!"

"Your performance at Honningbrew says differently."

"Don't you dare blame Honningbrew on me. I had everything under control. Everything! It's all father's fault and that wretched Imperial, Mallus Maccius. I told them not to poison the nest. Only the mead! Father didn't listen. He never listens! And now Hamelyn is dead and everything is spoiled."

"Who, pray tell, is this Hamelyn person?"

"He was my friend! An alchemist, like me," Ingun cried. Maven snorted. "He brought the skeevers into Honningbrew, just like you wanted."

"That's all fine and good but once Sabjorn was out, what use would an infested meadery be to me?"

"You told Hemming to kill the skeevers!"

"Of course I did."

"Hamelyn had raised them into an army!"

"Precisely. Why would I want an army of skeevers destroying my meadery and eating up my profits?"

"But mother, you don't understand. Hamelyn's army was to serve you. We had it all planned out."

"An army. Of skeevers."

"Yes! They obeyed Hamelyn perfectly. You could have sent them against your enemies—undetectable until they struck! You'd have no further need of the Dark Brotherhood. Skeevers can travel anywhere, eat anything, and strike in secrecy and silence."

"Skeevers are unclean pests."

"These were special. Altered by alchemy and carefully trained—and the Companions killed them and Hamelyn as well."

Anuriel could practically hear Maven's frown in her voice. "Hemming said this alchemist of yours was a madman."

"Father destroyed Hamelyn's life's work for no reason! He and I had an agreement and Father spoiled everything! Of course Hamelyn was upset. How would you feel?" There was a pause. "Why did he do it? I told him—but he didn't listen. If you told him to do it then it's your fault, too."

"I left the details to Maccius."

"He didn't listen to me either," Ingun said. "He snuck us into the meadery and left us there."

"Unfortunate but what's done is done. Meanwhile, I expect you to report to Hemming as I told you."

"As I told _you_, my interest in the family business is quite low. I aspire to be much more than a mere merchant."

Oh, how Anuriel would have liked to see Maven's face. Mere merchant!

"Your interests lay where I wish them to lay."

By the time the front door slammed, Anuriel was demurely seated on the far side of the parlor, conscientiously reviewing her notes. By then, Maven had her face under control. Only the rigidity of her back betrayed her aggravation. Maven gave her orders with curt efficiency. Anuriel scrambled to make a note of everything she needed to do. Maven flipped through the paperwork one more time. Raised her brows.

"It seems we have acquired a horse."

"It is a racehorse. Said to be quite valuable."

"I have no use for a racehorse. Where did it come from?"

"Brynjolf found it."

"Found it? He didn't find it wandering by the road, I presume. Will we have trouble with its former owner?"

"No, we have all the paperwork, including a bill of sale and the lineage papers that prove its worth. Brynjolf handled it quite well." She spoke with a touch of pride. She might be the jarl's steward, she might be Maven's flunky, but first and foremost she was a member of the Thieves Guild.

"Competence from the Thieves Guild? How unexpected. " A pause. "Oh, come now, Anuriel, don't bristle so, this is no reflection on you. My point is, of late, the guild has disappointed again and again. They seem to be making a habit of failure." She leaned in closer. "Perhaps you will pass on the word to Mercer Frey next time you see him? Failure is not a habit I wish to encourage. At any rate, this horse can remain at the lodge for now. I may have some use for it after all."


	14. Dragonborn

**14: Dragonborn**

In Ivarstead, they told Thorald there were seven thousand steps up the winding path to High Hrothgar. That hadn't sounded like much when he started. How bad could it be? Had anyone actually counted them? He lost count around three hundred when a startled mountain goat barreled past him, close enough to brush his hip. Unbalanced by the huge pack of donated supplies on his back, he slipped, frantically seesawed back and forth before crashing hard on his rear. He thought he'd never get back on his feet. _The generosity of the villagers will be the death of me_. Seven thousand steps, were there? Seventeen thousand steps seemed more like it. Or maybe seventy thousand...

With the threatening weather, he didn't see any pilgrims but he did see the little shrines along the path. He read the plaques on the shrines and thought about the thu'um. What a strange gift to be given him—magic. His da always said magic should be left to the elves but this was different. Nord magic. Old Nord magic. Ulfric had implied that anyone could learn the thu'um but why did no one do so? It was certainly useful. Yet until he'd heard Ulfric at Helgen, he thought Shouting was nothing but a legend, just as he'd thought the Greybeards were a legend.

Just as he thought the Dragonborn a legend. On his way out of Whiterun, he'd stopped by the temple for Kyne's blessing. He was afraid Danica would be too busy but the moment she saw him, she pulled him to her inner chamber. At first she said nothing, only gazed upon him. Her stare made him uneasy. He'd been catching those looks since his return from the Western Watchtower but to see bemused wonderment on _Danica's_ face—

"Tell me about souls," he blurted.

"I can tell you what I know. Ask."

Ask. Was it so simple? "I thought souls were immortal." Her eyes upon him were kind. Wise. "But they say I ate that dragon's soul. Is that possible?"

"Souls are immortal," she said.

"So it's a lie."

"I don't know but I will tell you what I believe," she said. "Are you familiar with how enchanting works?" At his blank look, she continued. "A soul is bound in a gem. That soul can then be used to add power to a weapon or to armor."

"An animal's soul, you mean."

"Human and mer souls can also be bound, although only to special soul gems. The soul is bound but it is not destroyed. Eventually it is released. A soul may be bound, used, reborn—but destroyed? No, I don't believe a soul can be destroyed. Our souls ascend to Aetherius or are trapped in Oblivion but they are immortal."

"Not destroyed. Not—eaten."

"I cannot believe a soul is destroyed. Transformed, perhaps."

Transformed. This wasn't the answer he wanted. He thought about the dragon they'd killed and how it felt when its soul—if that was truly its soul—entered him. Not power exactly, but knowledge—an alien knowledge that still shivered through his bones. Transformed? He was a warrior. How was he supposed to understand these things?

Ulfric thought the black dragon's appearance meant something. And maybe it did. And maybe the dragon and the thu'um were connected. The fight at the Western Watchtower showed that. Maybe. But what did it mean? One dragon might be a symbol or portent but two dragons? Two dragons were an invasion.

He remembered the dragon's seeking head, its mouth opened as if to speak, right before he killed it. What would it have said? Would he have understood it? Did he need to understand it? Should he have shown it mercy? And yet, what mercy had it shown the guards at the Western Watchtower? What mercy had the black dragon shown at Helgen?

Where was the black dragon?

He climbed. After awhile the words stopped running around in his head. The path was wide in places, narrow in others but the wind was constant. Cold air flowed down from the peak. Thank Kyne he'd let that fisherman in Ivarstead press him into accepting his repulsive fur cap. Without it his ears would have already frozen. His steady exertion kept him warm but he realized he would need to find a sheltered spot when he wanted to rest. It didn't look like there was much in the way of shelter to be had. He was fit and strong but as the path continued to climb, steeper and steeper, his calves began a long and steady protest.

Then it started to snow.

This was not the gentle snow that dropped a white blanket on the lowlands surrounding Whiterun. This was a fierce, icy, stinging snow, a snow that attacked any exposed skin and caked his beard. He kept climbing.

And then there was the troll.

The townsfolk had cautioned him about wolves but the weather had driven the wolves to their lairs. Not so the troll. Without warning, it erupted from the snow almost under his feet. It had long arms and long teeth and an unreasonable number of eyes on its misshapen head. To reach his sword, Thorald had to wrestle his way out of the pack straps. Before he was free of the pack, the monster was on top of him. Its breath almost gagged him. In unthinking reflex, he Shouted.

FUS RO DAH!

Completely airborne, the troll flew straight off the edge of the path, arms and legs pinwheeling for a nonexistent balance. Thanks to the driving snow, Thorald lost sight of it in seconds. The wind almost drowned out the troll's terrified roar while the echo of Thorald's Shout bounced off the stones around him and started a minor avalanche on the path below. Divines, what a mess! His heart pounded. He peered down the trail but the troll was gone as if it had never existed. After a moment he shrugged the pack back on. If the monster survived that fall it had a long climb to get its revenge. With any luck, he'd hear it coming.

After that he was much more alert.

Yet as he climbed he felt his calmness return despite the way the wind cried and muttered like a living creature. Did the Greybeards understand the secret language of the wind? Wind was sacred to Kyne. Is that why they lived in such an inconvenient spot? He thought about that long ago pilgrimage, the three jarls' sons, Ulfric, Balgruuf and Istlod. Had they laughed and joked as they climbed this icy path? Or had the wind scoured the words from them as it did from him?

When the snow stopped, the view of the valley below was breathtaking. It was a long way down. Thorald looked up. It was also a long way up.

If the monastery had been at the very top of the mountain, he doubted he could have reached it before nightfall. Luckily the builder had retained some tiny shred of sanity and erected the monastery on a shoulder of the mountain some distance below the summit. As it was, the sun was behind the mountainside and long cold shadows fell across the path when he finally reached the last little shrine and saw the great stone building loom above him.

There were more steps up. Thorald's calves were sobbing lumps of pain. There were huge iron doors that looked like they could withstand any siege. Even a dragon would have a hard time breaking them down.

One door was slightly ajar.

There was no door knocker or bell pull. The heavy door soaked up the sound of his pounding fist.

"Hello?" Thorald called. He pushed the door wider and stepped inside. Stone floor, stone walls, with but a few lonely lamps to cast a bit of light in the great hall. What the dim light exposed was more cheerless and grim than the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm. Silence assaulted his ears as the wind had assaulted them outside. His next call echoed off the stone. He dropped the heavy pack. His back's complaints were drowned out by his calves.

He heard scuffling footsteps.

He wouldn't have been shocked to see a skeletal mage or a draugr. He supposed he should have expected the old man in the tatty gray robe.

"You have arrived," the man said. Three other men came in silently behind him. So these were the Greybeards of legend. One of their whispers could kill, the legend said, and so the Greybeards always wore gags. But these men wore no gags. Thorald didn't know whether to be fearful or relieved. Was there no threat, or was there no protection from that threat?

"You were expecting me?"

"Of course."

Of course. What in Oblivion did that mean? "You know who I am?" Thorald asked.

"We don't know who you are. We know _what_ you are. I am Arngeir. This is Master Wulfgar, Master Borri and Master Einarth. You know us as the Greybeards." He paused to look at the others. "We welcome you to High Hrothgar."

"But how did you know I was coming?"

"Kynareth speaks in the whispers of the wind. The dragons have returned, She tells us. And so, too, has one of the Dragon Blood returned." He exchanged a look with Master Einarth. "Also, we heard your Shout on the path just now."

Master Einarth gave him a gentle nod of encouragement. Thorald had absolutely no idea what to say.

"The winds of change have brought you here," Master Arngeir said. "It is Kynareth's will that you be taught. Will you learn?"

"If you will teach me, I will try to learn."

"Then we begin." Again Master Arngeir looked at the others. Some unspoken communication flowed between them.

"Right now?" Thorald was tired, sore, freezing and hungry.

"Yes. Before you can be taught, you must be tested." There was another exchange of looks between the old men. "But perhaps we should go outside to the courtyard. We'll try to keep the damage to a minimum."

Damage? What kind of test was this? Thorald shook his head and dropped his sword next to his pack. Oh boy.

* * *

Ancano coded his message to Elenwen with careful concentration.

_I assume your sources in Whiterun have informed you of the dragon Thorald Gray-Mane has allegedly slain. There are rumors of yet more dragon sightings across Skyrim. Please confirm. As of yet, we have seen no dragons. I have tracked our target to Ivarstead. He has apparently gone on a pilgrimage to an obscure monastery known as High Hrothgar. The monks are linguistic scholars of some ancient Nord language. I cannot imagine what brings him here. It is said the monks discourage visitors and only rarely accept students. This may be a trick to elude pursuit but he has left his horse and gear at the inn and climbed the mountain on foot. There is only one path up the mountain and it is arduous. We have him pinned down. My squad attracts too much attention in this tiny village, so we have relocated to an abandoned barrow nearby, which the locals believe is haunted. We have informants watching all roads in the vicinity. When he leaves the monastery, we will take him._

She isn't going to like this, Ancano thought. I don't like it myself. Am I to believe this dragon-slayer, this man who almost single-handedly saved Jarl Ulfric's life has traipsed to the middle of nowhere to study some dead language? Ha. Is he fool enough to think a handful of feeble old scholars can shield him from the Thalmor?

* * *

Haelga enjoyed her mornings in Riften's market square. Cooking for her guests at the Bunkhouse was a never ending chore. She had a limited repertoire of filling but inexpensive meals and sometimes it seemed she spent half her life chopping meat and vegetables to fill some layabout's ravenous belly. But the actual shopping was pleasant. There was always something new in the market, fresh from the farm or fresh from the hunt. And there was always the possibility of somebody new.

Or somebody familiar, seen in a new way. Take Balimund over there, reaching under a bench for a tool. Look at the muscles on that man. She'd never noticed how big his arms were. A woman would surely feel held and safe with arms like that wrapped around her.

"Ah, Haelga, I was hoping to find you here," a voice said in her ear. Haelga gave a guilty jump.

"Lady Maven!"

Maven looked at her basket, already half filled with vegetables. "How industrious," she said, in the tones of a woman who had never prepared a meal in her life. "I like to see a hard worker. So often hard work is its own reward, is it not?"

Haelga had no idea what she meant but she gave a dutiful nod and smile. _What did she want? What did she want?_

"I'm sure your duties keep you quite busy," Maven continued. Her jaw tightened. "Much too busy to practice your Dibellan arts with my son."

"Hemming is a man," Haelga said. "He can make his own decisions."

"He is a man and I think we both know which part of him makes certain decisions. Not a part known for discrimination nor intelligence. I like you, Haelga. I would hate to see anything—unfortunate—happen to you."

Haelga kept her eyes steady but she could feel her hands begin to tremble. "We're not doing anything wrong."

"If you wish to worship Dibella, that's your own business. But what you do with my son is my business. Let me make my meaning plain. Sleep with my son again and you will find yourself with a face only an orc could find beautiful. Scars do give character, they say. Does Dibella agree?" She lowered her voice. "If I ordered it, Hemming would use the knife himself. I'm sure he would be very sorry to see such loveliness spoiled." Maven stared up into her eyes. I'm taller than her, an inane part of Haelga's gibbering mind noted. Why does she make me feel so small?

Haelga hadn't said a word but Maven nodded in satisfaction. "Good. We understand each other." She looked around the market square. "A new face in the market? Who is that, I wonder?"

Haelga followed her gaze. She forced stiff lips to move.

"That's Grelka. A smith from Whiterun. She's supposed to be very good. They say she's an artist with armor."

"Indeed. An artist with armor? What a pretentious idea. Yet it is good to see more craftsmen here, good to see the town become more prosperous. Perhaps I'll order new armor for Hemming."

* * *

Thorald's time with the Greybeards was short but intense. Very intense. From time to time he felt his ears to make sure his brain wasn't leaking out. Master Arngeir, who controlled his own Voice with exquisite precision, was the only Greybeard that would speak to him. The others, he said, might hurt him by mistake.

Thorald had questions, many questions. Sometimes Master Arngeir would try to answer them, but all too often, his response was, "You must seek your answers within." Within himself, presumably. Thorald grew restless and frustrated. _If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be asking! _Some of what the Greybeards taught him was practical—how to breathe to better support his Voice, how to time his Shout to build maximum power. But Master Arngeir's main focus was philosophical—the Way of the Voice.

Once he asked about Ulfric. Arngeir compressed his lips. "We taught him for years," Arngeir said. He was still bitter after all this time, Thorald realized. "And he abandoned the Way at the earliest opportunity." The other Greybeards nodded their heads but Thorald caught a hurt look in Master Einarth's eyes that made him sorry he'd brought the subject up.

"I might as well tell you now that I don't think I'll be able to follow the Way either," Thorald said. "I want to use the Voice to fight dragons. Not for the glory of the Divines. I'm sorry."

"You are a special case," Master Arngeir said. "Kyne has given you a gift. By using Her gift, Her will is served." Master Borri bowed his head to Arngeir. He raised a cupped hand to his lips and mimed blowing. "Ah," Arngeir said. "Thank you, Borri. At this point in your training, we wish to send you on a pilgrimage. Retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller."

Ustengrav, now a ruin, was the burial place of the founder of the Greybeards, Jurgen Windcaller. Thorald suspected they came up with this task because they needed a break. Divines knew he did. At this point, a traipse through a draugr-infested old tomb sounded like a holiday.

Ustengrav was northeast of Morthal. Thorald resisted the temptation of stopping in Whiterun on the way.

He'd been through plenty of old tombs with his uncle or others of the Companions. Although in general it was felt best to let sleeping draugr lay and not disturb their resting places, it was astonishing how many times they were asked to do so. Nords respected their dead. They also respected their treasure.

He'd never before gone into a place like this alone—one had Shield Siblings to avoid such foolish risks—but he found that a judicious use of the thu'um tilted odds to his favor. The words he'd learned from Ulfric were called Unrelenting Force. The Greybeards taught him another Shout, Whirlwind Sprint. By the time he'd worked his way through the barrow, both Shouts came to his throat with effortless ease. Perhaps that was the Greybeard's purpose in sending him here. So he was relatively unscathed when he finally made his way to the horn's final resting place. Before him stood Jurgen Windcaller's tomb. Before him stood the statue with the outstretched hand, just as described. The empty outstretched hand. Where was the horn?

"Looking for this?" Delphine stepped from the shadows. She held the horn in her hand.

Thorald's jaw dropped. "Gah!" was all he could choke out.

"No, no. You're supposed to ask what I'm doing here. And I'm supposed to say I'm waiting for the one true Dragonborn. That's how this goes."

"How did you know to wait here?" he asked.

"Because the Greybeards are predictable." He gave her a look. "And because I followed you."

"You followed me. But you beat me here."

"I'm guessing the Greybeards didn't tell you about the shortcut into the main chamber. Because it wouldn't be a trial if you didn't do everything the hard way." She shook her head. "And here is your horn." She gave it a look. "It's not magical, you know. It's just old. It doesn't do anything." She put it to her lips. "See?" She blew.

The blast of sound about burst Thorald's eardrums. A large rock carving fell from near the ceiling and hit the ground with a crash Thorald could feel through his boots. The seemingly nerveless Delphine jumped about a foot.

"Talos help us! Give that to me!" he said.

"Take it." She tossed the horn to him.

He lunged. With slower reflexes, the horn would no doubt have shattered on the stone floor. He imagined Master Arngeir's face if he'd brought back their precious relic in pieces. Worse, he imagined Master Einarth's sad puppy dog eyes. He glared. "What's the matter with you? That's the very horn used by Jurgen Windcaller at the Battle of Red Mountain. It may not be magic but it's old and priceless and means a great deal to the Greybeards."

"The Greybeards. Ha. If it meant so much to them, why have they left it moldering here all these years? These tests and pilgrimages, they're meaningless. The Greybeards themselves are relics from a lost age. If you are truly the Dragonborn, you are the only one who can stop the dragons from destroying Skyrim. And what do they have you do? Fetch some worthless old horn."

"Do you know what you're talking about?" he said uneasily. "Because I sure don't."

"Oh, I think you have a clue. That dragon in Whiterun—they say you took its soul when you killed it. Is that true?"

"Something happened," he admitted.

"That's what the Dragonborn is. A man with the soul of a dragon, they say. A man who can take power from a dragon. Haven't the Greybeards taught you anything important?"

"How do you know this?"

"There's a lot I know. There's a lot I don't know. I'm one of the last of the Blades. Do you know what that means? From your face, I'd say not. Like the Greybeards, we're another bunch of relics from a lost age but we haven't been sitting on our pious arses all this time. We served the last Dragonborn—Tiber Septim. For many, many years, the Blades guarded the Septim line. But before we were the protectors of kings, we were dragon slayers. I know how to kill dragons, theoretically."

"Theoretically."

"Aye." Her look was as sarcastic as his. "But I don't know how to make them stay dead. That's where you come in."

"I don't understand."

"These dragons—there are more of them. A lot more of them. You do understand that, don't you? They're not coming from somewhere. They're coming from nowhere. They're being raised from the dead."

"Is that possible?"

"I've seen the empty burial cairns. I've seen where these monsters have clawed themselves out of the earth. And I have a suspicion of who is doing the raising."

"Who?"

"Who profits from the destruction of Skyrim? Who profits from this civil war? Who fears the might of a combined and stable Skyrim? The Thalmor, of course. When Skyrim is united, she will strike at the Aldmeri Dominion. The Thalmor cannot allow that to happen. They are spread too thinly as it is, while they rebuild the forces they lost against the Empire. The Empire and Skyrim should be rebuilding too, not wasting forces fighting a civil war. The timing says it all. Just at the moment when Ulfric faced execution, just at the moment that the war was sure to end, the dragon struck. It must be the Thalmor. Who else would have access to the magic required?"

Divines, could it be true? But why would the Thalmor hire him to rescue Ulfric if they had a dragon in their back pocket?

Delphine gave him a hard look. "The dragons must be stopped. The Thalmor must be stopped. And you better be careful, Thorald. They have spies out everywhere and they are looking for you. I spoiled one ambush on the way here but there will be more. I've done what I can but I have to be careful. They're looking for me as well. You can't go back to High Hrothgar. The Thalmor have elves in place waiting for you."

"And you suggest?"

"I suggest we do what you're born to do. Kill dragons. I have a map of the old dragon burial cairns. I've been trying to make a pattern of which ones have been opened. If my pattern is right, we should go check the cairn at Kynesgrove. Maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe there will be a dragon. Then you can kill it and prove you're the Dragonborn."

"It would prove something all right. It would prove I'm as crazy as you! Have you ever seen a dragon? I have. Have you ever killed a dragon? I have! The two of us, go alone to kill one? It's going to take a team, Delphine."

"Then assemble your team. But the more of us there are, the easier it will be for the Thalmor to find us."

Thorald knew Kynesgrove. Kynesgrove was little more than a wide spot in the road, smaller than Ivarstead, totally relying on Windhelm for its protection. If there was truly a dragon in Kynesgrove, the Thalmor were going to be the least of their problems.


	15. An Unexpected Rescue

_Author's Note: November is coming and that means NaNoWriMo. I was hoping to have this story finished this month but there are about eight more chapters to go..._

_I've been over this chapter quite a few times and am still not real happy with it. Feedback would be lovely. Please review!_

**15: An Unexpected Rescue**

Thorald had sent messages to Jorrvaskr and to Windhelm. He was sure—almost sure—that a squad of Stormcloaks would meet them in Kynesgrove. He was hopeful at least some of the Companions would come as well. Kodlak had not just been displeased when he told him he was joining the Stormcloaks. He'd been _dismayed, _as if he'd seen Thorald's decision as a personal betrayal. Which had taken Thorald shockingly aback. Although he was always scrupulously neutral, Thorald had thought Kodlak was sympathetic to Ulfric's cause. Thorald still puzzled over his reaction.

He and Delphine rode in silence through some back roads Thorald had never even heard of. She knew a shortcut to everywhere in Skyrim. _If she's wrong about this dragon, I'm going to look quite the fool when I get to Kynesgrove. _And that was fine by him. Everyone would have a good laugh. Sometimes being wrong was better than being right.

But Delphine wasn't wrong. As they approached Kynesgrove, Thorald felt a strange tingle across his skin. It felt like hundreds of ants marching down his back. Marching all in step. He looked up, looked all around, saw nothing.

"What is that?" he asked.

Delphine also looked around and then frowned. "What is what?"

And now he felt a tightness across his head like a band wrapped around his temples. It didn't hurt, not exactly, but he was sure that pain was lurking and ready to report for duty.

"I think," he said grimly, "That we better hurry." The horses picked up his urgency—or maybe they sensed it too, whatever 'it' was—and they both trotted up the trail. Delphine led the way but she turned her head from time to time to glance at him.

And then he felt the Words. Felt them on his skin or in his mind, not exactly in his ears.

"Do you hear it?" he whispered.

"Hear what?"

Maybe this was what the Greybeards meant when they said they could hear the whisper or the echo of Words of Power. Had they felt this when he Shouted at the dragon in Whiterun? Had they felt this when that dragon died?

Delphine wouldn't gallop her tiring horse up a steep trail but they were moving at a pretty good pace when they headed the rise and looked over at the burial cairn.

"Lorkham's eyes," she said. "We're too late."

An explosion of rock and fresh dirt had formed a crater. Something very large had forced its way out of the earth so recently that worms still scuttled for cover in the damp earth.

"Where is it?" Thorald asked.

Delphine pointed. Off in the near distance nestled Kynesgrove. "It will attack the village. Listen for the screams," she said.

He didn't see a dragon. Nor smoke. There wasn't any actual screaming. But there will be, he thought with inner certitude.

They rode into Kynesgrove to find Aela in charge.

"The townsfolk are all in the inn's basement," she said.

"Have you seen it?" he asked.

"It?" She gave him one of her curved sword smiles, sharp and deadly. "Them. I've seen them. A big black dragon and a smaller bronze one, very similar to the one at the tower. They circled the town and then flew off to the east."

"They're gone?"

She shrugged. "For now. Who's your friend?" Her eyes narrowed. "Wait, I know her. Isn't that the innkeeper from Riverwood? You're traveling with her? Does Grelka know about this?"

If that was humor, it was ill-timed. Thorald stretched his senses. He couldn't quite hear the dragon but he thought he could feel it. "There it is," he said.

Still frowning, Aela looked. "I don't see it. Are you sure?"

"It's coming." He raised his voice. "Heads up, people. Spread out and remember, concentrate on its wings. We've got to force the dragon to the ground as soon as possible."

Then they all saw it and there was a murmur of wonder and dismay. It wasn't the big black one, Thorald noted. It wasn't the dragon from Helgen. Thank Talos! The thought of tangling with that big black dragon made him feel a bit sick. _It was invulnerable. _He didn't know how to fight it. He'd gone to the Greybeards for help and they had given him the Way of the Voice.

How could he fight with that? He needed a weapon, not a philosophy.

_This was why Ulfric had left them. That was why Ulfric abandoned the Way. _

* * *

"That could have gone better," Aela said when it was finally over.

"Yeah," Thorald said. "A lot better." Vilkas had taken a claw in the chest, proving that dragon claws could indeed penetrate Skyforge steel. Wounded but not dead, thank Stendarr, although it was his unusual resilience that had saved him. Two Stormcloaks had died in the fight, one instantly and the second, after several long horrifying moments. _He didn't even know their names._ And a villager, who apparently had not heard the command to take cover, would now fit in a funerary urn with plenty of room to spare for any offerings his family cared to leave.

"Your lady friend is pretty handy with the bow. Knows a few spells too." When Thorald made no reply, she said, "Delphine, is it? I'd say she comes from a very different innkeeper school than old Hulda in Whiterun, yes?" Thorald still didn't answer. _Was there any more horrible way to die than fire?_ "Well? Cat got your tongue?"

"Just thinking, sorry."

"Yeah, you're an officer now. Lots of thinking in that, I'd imagine. Giving orders. Taking orders. Must be quite a change from the Companions. A different kind of glory, huh?"

"Glory?"

She waved her hand. "All this will make quite a tale."

Thorald finally woke from his stupor and took in her highly aggressive stance. "You have a problem with me?"

"Why would I possibly have a problem with you? Because you jilted my best friend? Because you left the Companions to join the Stormcloaks? Because Kodlak—forget it."

"I'm trying to do what's right."

"Yeah. Don't we all." She shook her head at him. He knew she was mad and he could even see why. But he didn't have time to sort it out. Delphine's pattern was right this time—it might be right again. Her map had suddenly taken on a huge relevance. Maybe they could use it to track down the black dragon.

"Your lady friend is beckoning."

"Is she? Listen, Aela. Do you think you could gather up some of these scales and take them to my da? And show him Vilkas's armor, too. We're going to need better protection for our people."

"I'm going to have to take Vilkas back in a wagon so sure, that should be no problem." She gave him a look. "I'll save the scales for Grelka. I'm sure she'll be back soon."

"Good," he said vaguely and headed over to Delphine.

* * *

"Did it hurt?" Delphine asked.

"What?"

"When you ate that dragon's soul. It looked like it hurt."

"I didn't _eat_ it." She raised a brow and he knew he couldn't possibly explain. He didn't want to explain. It was too—it was too personal for explanations. "It didn't hurt. Not exactly." But he knew something happened. He knew more than he wanted to know. He knew the dragon's name. Sahloknir. Sah Lok Nir. Lok was a word he had learned at High Hrothgar, a word frequently in Master Arngeir's mouth. Lok, thu'um. Sky above, Voice within. In Dragonspeech, Lok meant sky. A fitting name for a winged creature.

"And now there's no doubt at all," she said. She sounded satisfied. "You really are the Dragonborn."

"The Greybeards think so too," Thorald said drily.

"Where's the black dragon? Do you know?"

"No."

"Strange, that it didn't attack Kynesgrove. But the other one, the one we killed. It spoke. What did it say?"

"Alduin."

"And what does that mean?"

"You've never heard of the World-Eater?"

"Is this some Nord legend?"

"Aye. I thought everyone knew of Alduin, not just Nords. Alduin was the dragon who destroyed the last world. Clearing the way for this one to be born, although I'm not sure that was his intention. He was a god, or so they say."

"A god. Is Alduin the Nord name for Akatosh? But Akatosh didn't destroy the world. Perhaps the dragon called upon Alduin as you would call upon Talos in your need."

"Perhaps."

"You sound uncertain," Delphine said.

He _was_ uncertain. He wished he could speak to Arngeir. He'd heard of the legends of the evil dragon Alduin since childhood. Alduin was the dragon that had enslaved the Nord people, ages ago. But now, when the dragon spoke, for the first time he heard the familiar and dreaded name as words. _Al Du In_. And _In_ was a word he knew. It meant master.

In the short time he'd been with the Greybeards, he'd absorbed how sparingly they spoke. He knew little about dragons. But it seemed strange to him that one would use Words of Power as a mere prayer or curse. Could that dying dragon have _literally_ called upon Alduin for aid? Could the World-Eater have returned?

Was _that_ why Kyne had given him this power?

He must be wrong. He had to be wrong. Surely the Greybeards would know the truth.

"We need Esbern," Delphine said. "He was the real expert on dragons. We always thought he was just another mad Nord. No offense. Joke's on me, yes?"

With the stench of burning human flesh still heavy in the air, Thorald didn't feel much like laughing. "Who is Esbern? He knows about dragons? Where is he?"

"Dead now, caught up in that mess in Cyrodiil. Ancient history. Never mind. Could someone be directing that black dragon? Esbern showed me a picture once of a man riding a dragon."

"Truly? Riding a dragon?" All his life, he'd envied birds their power of flight. What would it be like to fly, to see Nirn from the back of a dragon? Could it be done?

"He might have been one of the old dragon priests. I don't remember."

"Actually riding it? Like riding a horse?" Thorald tried to picture that. A winged horse. Talos! Of all the things he'd hoped the Greybeards could teach him, what could be more awesome than the power of flight? "They're certainly strong enough to carry a man. The black dragon in Helgen picked a soldier up in its claws and flew off with him. It didn't turn out well for the soldier," he added. "But where would you put the saddle?"

Delphine snorted. "Never mind all that. We need to go to Solitude. I'm more certain than ever that the Thalmor are behind this somehow." He tried to picture an elf, with Thalmor robes flapping in the wind, riding a dragon. His mind boggled. What he'd felt on the ride to the dragon barrow didn't feel like witch magic. It felt like the Voice. He tried to picture an elf training with the Greybeards. More bogglement.

"We need to find out what they know," Delphine continued. "There would be records in the embassy. There must be a way to get in there."

"We could ride in on a dragon."

"I'm serious. Maybe I could get you an invitation to one of Elenwen's parties."

"I thought you were serious. A Gray-Mane at the Thalmor embassy? That would last until the guards stopped laughing and drew their weapons. I can't go there."

"Neither can I, damn it. I do have a contact, though. Someone on the inside. But I can't ask him to take that kind of risk. He's not like you."

Thorald remembered his first trip to Solitude. "I also have a contact."

* * *

Another of Delphine's shortcuts took them to Solitude without, they hoped, attracting notice. She had a friend with a shack and a bit of a shed where they could leave the horses. Smugglers, Thorald thought. Great. And she knew a way into the city through the docks that avoided the main gates.

Thorald felt very exposed in Solitude, as if everyone could see him wearing a Stormcloak uniform although, in fact, he was in ordinary armor. The tone of the city had changed since Torygg's death. People seemed more watchful now, more suspicious. Or maybe it's just me, he thought. Delphine was wearing off on him. A perverse part of him wanted to Shout in the street, just to see what would happen.

He and Delphine separated, each to seek their secret contacts in the Thalmor Embassy. "If you get anything good, get out and don't wait for me," she told him. "We'll meet back in Riverwood." His contact was as jumpy as he was and she didn't want to meet where they could be seen. And so they ended up walking along a deserted strand of beach outside the city. Having been raised inland, Thorald was fascinated by the ocean.

The maid—they carefully didn't exchange names although it soon became clear that she knew exactly who he was—had quite a bit of useful information. And some troubling information as well. "The elves don't know anything about dragons and they are desperate to find out. Elenwen has gone through all their archives and sent off for books and scholars as well. But there's another thing. Elenwen keeps files on most of the prominent people in Skyrim," she said. "I've been reading them as I get the chance. Did you know that Jarl Ulfric was captured during the Great War? The ambassador interrogated him personally. She tortures people. She still does it too. Down in the basement, what used to be the cellars—she tortures people down there. She comes up with blood on her clothes. Smiling!"

She gave Thorald a sideways look. "I don't know if I should tell you—but it worries me so!"

"Something about Ulfric?"

"In her report, she says—but she might have been lying!"

"What did she say?" he asked gently.

"She says that while he was a prisoner during the Great War, she tortured him and got information about Cyrodiil's defenses. But they tricked him! They made him think the Imperial City fell because of what he'd said. She said the Imperial City had actually been taken days earlier but he didn't know that. And they let him escape. And then they blackmailed him into helping them later. But Ulfric would never help the Thalmor. Would he?"

Thorald was a bit shaken himself but he tried not to let that show.

"I don't know the truth of what happened then," he said. The Thalmor had wanted Ulfric to escape from Helgen. Were they using him still? Was that even possible? Would Ulfric willingly allow himself to be a Thalmor tool? No. Surely not. It was not only impossible, it was unthinkable. "But I do believe that it is the present that we must focus on"

"There is a lot of information on the Gray-Mane family," she said with a sly look. "Someone named Vignar that they're worried about. They think he has too much influence in Whiterun. If you know anyone in his family you might warn them to be careful. They have a fortress west of here where they take hostages. They're planning on taking his relatives there if they catch any."

Oh, boy. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. They have someone down in the cellars now. Elenwen is all excited about some information they think he has. It has something to do with dragons, I'm almost certain."

"Do you know his name?"

"No. I think he came from Riften but that's all I heard. They're keeping this one quiet."

"I'd like to speak to him then."

"That's impossible. Too many guards." And then she stopped. "But—"

"You have an idea?"

"Elenwen is throwing a party tonight. So she won't be down there. Neither will the guards, they'll be helping with the guests. If you could get down there tonight –"

"Is there a back way in?"

"Not through the compound. But _under_ the compound—yeah, there is a way. But it's tricky."

Thorald found the secret cave. He found the troll. He was beginning to not just hate, but _loathe_ trolls. Taking his frustrations out on this one was strangely satisfying. He found the locked hatch that led into the cellars. The maid hadn't been able to get a key. That didn't matter. It was a simple plank door, large enough for a crate or a man. Thorald was a smith's son. He'd been taking things apart since before he could walk. He found some old abandoned boxes and piled them into a rickety platform. With the tools he'd brought, he had the door disassembled in a few minutes. He hoped the maid was right about the lack of guards because he'd made quite a racket. Fighting witch-elves in their own stronghold didn't strike him as a particularly bright idea. He pulled himself up into the cellar. No one in sight.

The basement was fairly clean, well lit and very quiet. Everything appeared normal at first glimpse. If the maid hadn't warned him of the horrors performed here, would he have even noticed the faint, battlefield odor of blood, raw sewage and decay? _If pain has a smell, this is it_. There were still no guards, as the maid had promised. _Bless her, Talos, bless her_. Then he turned a corner and all illusions of normalcy were dispelled by the body chained to the wall. No, not chained. _Nailed_ to the wall with heavy spikes. If there had ever been a part of him that didn't hate the Thalmor, it withered and died when he saw what had been deliberately, painstakingly done to what once was a man. He'd been alive through at least some of it.

_If that's my informant, I am far, far too late._

At the end of a row of empty cells, he found one that wasn't empty. At first Thorald thought this man was dead as well but then he saw his bare chest move. The man woke with a start when Thorald opened the unlocked cell door. He didn't lift his head.

"Is it time?" he asked in a whisper of utter despair.

"Time? Who are you?" Thorald asked. The man looked up. His eyes looked infinitely weary. His face was bruised and swollen. His bloody lips parted in surprise.

"I—you're a Nord?"

Thorald nodded. Was this Breton the informant he needed? Thorald supposed it didn't matter. He wouldn't leave a skeever in the hands of these malevolent witch-elves. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Mara, yes."

His manacles weren't locked, but merely latched with a pin. Released, the Breton fell. Thorald lunged to catch him but he couldn't decide where to grab—the fellow was burned or cut or bruised all over his emaciated body. The man grunted when he landed on his knees.

"I hope this isn't a trick," the man said. "Because if it is, I'm still falling for it. Let's go."

Despite his brave words, Thorald saw the glint of tears in the man's eyes as he huddled on the floor a long moment. Then he took a breath and used his bleeding hands to push himself to his feet. Feeling like a fool, Thorald remembered the healing potion he kept in his belt pouch for emergencies.

"Here," he said. He pulled the cork. The stranger gave the potion a dubious look before taking the vial between his trembling hands. He downed it in one long swallow.

"Ah," he said. He blinked. There was now a bit of color in his face. Not a healthy color, more of a hectic, feverish glow but it was an improvement over his corpse-like pallor. When they walked past the dead body, Thorald shuddered. The Breton swayed on his feet. Thorald saw his throat convulse.

"That was to be my fate next," he whispered. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated with fear.

"Don't look, Thorald said. He turned his own head away and led the Breton to the hatch.

"Um," the man said. "There's a troll down there. In case you didn't know. A really big one. They feed people to it. Or sometimes just bits of people." He looked at his hand. Half of his little finger was missing.

"I killed it on the way in," Thorald said.

The man smiled. Despite his damaged face, his smile had genuine warmth. "Did you? Truly?" He gave a little huff of relieved laughter. "Then lead on, hero," he said.

* * *

Thorald saw no point in waiting for Delphine and he saw a great deal of point in getting as far away from Solitude as quickly as possible. So he borrowed her horse for his new Breton friend, Etienne Rarnis. The smugglers said they could get her another horse, no problem. They'd put it on her tab. Etienne wasn't in much shape for riding but he was in _no_ shape for walking. Etienne clung to the saddle with grim determination.

"They already got everything out of me," Etienne said. "I think they kept me there out of some kind of elven thoroughness. Or maybe for entertainment. That Elenwen—" He tightened his grip on his horse's mane. "It was going to get worse. Much worse. They stopped healing me. They didn't care anymore if I could speak. Or hear. Or understand."

Thorald shuddered in sympathy. Stendarr's mercy! "What are they looking for?"

"Some old man in Riften. All they knew was he was holed up in the Ratway."

"What's the Ratway?" Thorald wasn't familiar with Riften at all.

"The sewers under the city. I was practically born down there, so I was their native guide, you might say. They wanted to know about this Esbern geezer. All worked up about it. Don't know why. He's a harmless old madman. Keeps to himself."

"Esbern?" The same name Delphine had mentioned. Her dragon expert. And the Thalmor were seeking for knowledge of dragons. This couldn't possibly be a coincidence.

"Yeah. They didn't say much about him, just that he has information they need."

"And you know where he is?"

"Yeah. And they got enough out of me, they have a pretty good idea where to look too."

"We need to get there, get him first."

Etienne gave him a sideways look. "So we're going to Riften?"

"Well, I am," Thorald said. "You look like you should go straight to a healer. And then to bed for about a month."

"Oh, no. No, no. I'm going with you. Got me a score or two to settle." He gave Thorald another look. "I didn't get in that cell by accident, you see. I was set up by someone in the Thieves Guild. My guildmaster sent me here to Solitude on a special job. He sent me straight into Elenwen's hands." He looked down at his own battered, bloody hands. "I wasn't supposed to come back to Riften. I was supposed to die in that hole. He thinks he'll get away with it."

"Why would anyone do such a thing to you?" So Etienne was one of the notorious members of the Thieves Guild? Thorald thought he looked pretty much like anyone else. Anyone else who had been tortured for days, that is.

"I saw something I wasn't supposed to see. I didn't think much of it at the time. But since then, I've thought of very little else."

"Something important?"

Etienne breathed a laugh. "Oh, yes. We have a vault, you know. The guild does. Thieves are paranoid—we don't trust anyone, not even each other. Especially not each other when lots of gold is involved. The vault has a custom lock. Takes two keys to open it. Real secure. That's where the cream of our loot is stored until it's safe to fence it, you see. Nothing comes out until all the leaders agree."

Etienne's pale face was flushed. Thorald hoped he wouldn't fall off his horse. There was an apothecary in Morthal but he wasn't sure he dared stop there.

"One day I saw Mercer Frey, our guildmaster, coming out of the vault. He had a pack on his shoulder and it looked heavy. And I was a bit surprised-like, because he was alone. He only has one key, you see. But I figured he was the guildmaster, maybe he had a special key. But he gave me this look. And he gave me this smile. A funny kind of smile—all teeth, like a slaughterfish. The very next day, he calls me over and gives me this assignment. In Solitude. Usually I get my orders from Bryn—er, from someone else. And his special assignment sent me straight to the Thalmor. They _expected_ me. So now—now I need some answers. And you need some answers too. So I figure, let's help each other out."

"Sounds good," Thorald said. "But I'm in a hurry. We've got to beat the Thalmor to Riften. Hope you can keep up."

Etienne grimaced and let out an amused breath. "So do I."

* * *

Ancano thought the robed Altmer who rode into camp looked vaguely familiar. He slid off his steaming horse—he'd obviously been riding hard—handed the reins to the sentry who had come to ask his business. The sentry pointed to Ancano. The newcomer had a document case slung over his shoulder.

"Elenwen sent me," the newcomer said. "I'm Rulindil, Third Emissary. I am to join you and help however I can." Ancano looked him over more carefully. Not just a messenger then. Young, good-looking and did he detect a certain cockiness in the young mer's eyes? "I am familiar with the message. You can read it in front of me if you like."

Ancano gave him a sour look. One of Elenwen's little pets then. Wonderful.

He opened the sealed case, scanned the code. At least it wasn't the rebuke he expected for losing Thorald Gray-Mane. Although that rebuke would come later, no doubt, for Elenwen never forgot a mistake. No, this was something new.

'_You and your squad must go to Riften immediately. You're the closest agent I have. We've located a member of the Blades, an elderly Nord male named Esbern. He is said to be a mage of considerable ability. He must be captured alive. He has crucial information on dragons and I repeat, he must be captured _alive_. I'm sending one of my aides to assist you and to insure that my commands are met to the letter. We _need_ this man. Our informant escaped from the embassy, undoubtedly with the help of another Blade agent. We have long suspected some had fled to Skyrim. This agent may be headed to Riften as well, so be alert.'_

The letter seemed to have been written in great haste.

"Do you have any further information for me?" Ancano asked.

"I do. This man we seek is said to be hidden in the sewers that run under Riften. The Ratway, they call it. Riften is a Stormcloak city and we cannot show ourselves openly or we risk being mobbed by the locals. But Elenwen has a contact, an influential woman by the name of Maven Black-Briar. She will help us enter the city secretly and get us into the Ratway. She will also instruct the Thieves Guild to assist us in locating this man. They are quartered in the Ratway and can guide us to him. Shall we pack up camp? There's still daylight and we need to move swiftly."

Ancano gave the order under Rulindil's mildly mocking eye. Technically, the Third Emissary out-ranked him but he made no attempt to take command. _Going to be like that, is it?_ If the mission turned out well, this young buck would take the credit. And if it turned out poorly—well, Ancano was going to have to make sure that didn't happen.


	16. Tangles With the Law

_Author's Note: I've fussed and fussed with this chapter. Still not sure it flows the way I'd like. Drop me a review and let me know what you think! _

**16: Tangles With the Law**

Grelka tried to keep her misery hidden but it oozed out in grouchiness and sharp comments. She wasn't sure how she'd ever repay Balimund and Mjoll, much less earn enough coin to try to buy Frost back. She hated Riften more every day. The market square was dirty and loud. There were Argonians and dark elves everywhere. And beggars. It was probably unfair to blame them for the stench. Everyone, rich or poor, Nord or beast race, not to mention the fishery and the meadery, dumped their waste into the canal. It was horrible. Locals didn't seem to even notice the smell but Grelka didn't think she would ever get used to it.

Mara help her if she ever did.

She worked hard most afternoons and evenings crafting armor from leather and bits of metal she scrounged from Balimund and other vendors around town. Mornings, she sat in her stand and hawked it. Sneak thieves were a constant danger. Once she might have felt pity for the starving kids who roamed the market begging and stealing but now she just felt a burning anger. How dare they steal from her? She didn't have anything either! She was a beggar too, and she hated, hated, hated it. _I was someone in Whiterun._ Here in Riften she was just another pathetic mark.

Mjoll had been her first customer. It wasn't right, charging her patroness when she had already done so much, but Mjoll had insisted. There wasn't time to do much fancy work but the armor turned out well enough and Mjoll was pleased to be, as she called it, a walking advertisement. Balimund said he'd talk to the city guard, maybe get her a contract to repair and refurbish their armor. She was not pleased at the idea of working for those corrupt ruffians but taking their coin—yes, she thought she could manage that.

There had been no news about Frost. Hofgrir at the stables had no idea where he'd been taken but he had put out feelers. The thieves stole his papers, she reminded herself. They knew how valuable Frost was. Someone was taking good care of him. Sooner or later they would race him or breed him and the small, gossipy racing community would pass the word. If it wasn't for the war putting a halt to racing, she would have no doubt heard something already. She hadn't been able to bring herself to write either her father or her aunt and tell them what happened. Not yet. They had troubles of their own, after all.

_She was too ashamed_ _to tell them_. Any of her friends in Whiterun would help her but she'd have to tell them what happened. How she'd been tricked. And she was too ashamed. When she realized that, she was angrier than ever.

She trudged toward her stand, carrying a few pieces of basic armor to display. Custom work was where she excelled, but it would take a while to establish herself. By reflex she glanced at each of the other vendor's stands. She had no experience in arranging her displays to be attractive. _I was spoiled in Whiterun. Everyone lined up to see Eorlund's new work. It was usually bespoke off the forge_. She glanced at the jeweler's stand. And froze.

Right there in the case, for all to see, were her two dragon bone wedding rings! In incredulous shock and growing anger she stared at the vendor's face. His Argonian face. She recognized him by his horns. He was the lizard that had found her in the Ratway! The one Mjoll called Madesi.

She couldn't believe it. The armor dropped from her hands, forgotten.

"Those are my rings! You stole my rings!"

The Argonian blinked two sets of eyelids, inner and outer, one after the other. Grelka swallowed down nausea. "No, landstrider, I assure you—"

"You stole my rings and you have the nerve to sell them here! Right in front of me!"

Madesi stared at her, with no expression on his alien face. Surely only guilt could be so expressionless. She strode around the counter and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

"You pretended to help me and instead you robbed me? Is that why you were down there in the Ratway? Did you steal my coin purse as well?"

"There must be some mistake."

"Mistake?" She shook him. "You made a big damned mistake stealing from me. I made those rings, I would know them anywhere. Give them back now!"

He held up his hands, helplessly. Grelka's fury erupted. She punched him. He fell down. She tried to open the display case but it was locked. And then a rough grip yanked Grelka back on her heels. Two city guards had come up behind her. One slammed her against the low wall of the marketplace. Another twisted her arms behind her back and held her while the first guard stood over Madesi. He didn't bother to help the Argonian to his feet, she noticed through her red haze of fury.

"This lizard stole from me!"

"Shut up, you," the guard holding her said. "We're hauling you off to jail for assault."

"No, no," the Argonian said. "This is a mere misunderstanding. I am not pressing charges."

The guard facing him gave him an angry look then turned to Grelka. "You still must pay the fine for making a public disturbance." They hauled her off to Mistveil Keep and made her turn out her pockets. They took everything. Everything. Now she wouldn't even get a drink tonight unless she mooched it from one of her new friends. She returned to her stand seething with fury and humiliation. The Argonian had already left, she was glad to see. Assuming the armor she dropped had been taken by thieves, she was surprised when a dark elf brought it to her.

"Here," he said. "My name is Brand-Shei."

"Thanks," she said gruffly. "You have the stand next to me."

"Yes. Madesi asked me to be sure you got your merchandise back."

"Did he," Grelka growled.

Brand-Shei gave her a tentative look. "There is something I would like to explain, if you will listen?" She nodded. "You are new to Riften and have already run afoul of the Thieves Guild." He looked around to check for eavesdroppers. And then he explained how business was run in the market. The shakedowns she knew about. Balimund had already warned her that the guild would expect a cut of what she made. _Think of it as tax, lass. You pay the jarl and you pay the guild. That keeps everything running smoothly. _

She hadn't understood about the fencing.

"They bring things to us and we have to buy them. They set the price. And if we refuse—well—we may find ourselves framed for crimes we didn't commit. I myself just recently got out of jail. Sometimes our supplies are intercepted and stolen. We may even be set upon by thugs. Madesi would not have stolen your rings. I know him. He wouldn't have done that. But he has already lost almost all he has. He can't risk standing up to the Thieves Guild. And he can't afford to simply give the rings to you."

"I guess I owe him an apology," she said. "But why do you stay in Riften? Other cities aren't like this, surely."

The dark elf shrugged. "Where would we go? This is our home. And other cities are not so accepting of Argonians or Dunmer. Jarl Ulfric incites war because Skyrim is not free. For us, it has never been free."

* * *

Madesi hadn't come back that afternoon so Grelka didn't get a chance to apologize. Brand-Shei told her the Argonian slept down in the Ratway at night.

"I know the beggars sleep down there but surely he can afford a place in town. There are other Argonians staying at Haelga's Bunkhouse."

"He and Haelga had—some trouble," the dark elf said. Then in a whisper, "Haelga was curious about how Argonians, ahem, differ from humans. In, ahem, an intimate sense. And Madesi didn't share her curiosity." He gave her a sideways look. "Haelga doesn't appreciate rejection."

Grelka shook her head. And she thought she had problems. At least she didn't have that lusty old hagraven making advances. Things could be worse. And she'd actually had a paying customer that day (a friend of Mjoll's, no doubt) so she spent the afternoon customizing the fit of his armor. She looked idly across the market square as she worked and there he was! That cursed thief Brynjolf! She threw down her borrowed tools and strode purposefully towards him. She'd come quite close when he looked up and caught her intense glare. "Oh, no you don't," she muttered as he turned rapidly and tried to disappear into the thin afternoon crowd. He picked up the pace. She ran. "Stop!" she yelled and then she was close enough to grab his sleeve. He whirled around.

"Something I can do for you, lass?" They were right in front of the Temple of Mara.

"You can give me back my horse!"

She released his sleeve and buried both hands in the front of his shirt.

"Excuse me?"

How dare he pretend to be innocent and bewildered! She might have doubted her own memory but she didn't doubt that wicked, mischievous look in his eyes. "Don't take that tone with me! I know what you did!"

"Do I know you, lass?"

"You don't remember buying me a drink? Don't you dare lie to me! What did you do to me? Did you drug me? It was in the drink, wasn't it?"

"I'm sorry, lass, I don't know what you're talking about." He didn't look nervous at all. He looked smug. Grelka felt fury steam out of her ears. He looked at something over her shoulder and he had the effrontery to smile. Grelka ground her teeth. She hauled back and let him have it, right in the face. His nose crunched and blood spurted out. He covered his nose with both hands and stepped back with no move to defend himself. What a coward! She raised her fist again.

"By Talos you will tell me where you took my horse or I'll turn your face into jelly!"

She never heard the guard behind her, didn't know he was there until he tackled her.

"You've had your warning, fool," he growled in her ear. From her awkward position on the ground, she saw other booted feet approach. "Now we're going to do this the hard way."

The first boot took her in the ribs. The next was in the back. They only kicked her half a dozen times and they spared her face. She supposed she was lucky. They told her she was.

"Next time we'll kick the crap out of you. Give us any trouble, we'll do it now."

Brynjolf stood and watched as the guards dragged her to her feet and hauled her to the jail. He said not a word, neither to her nor to the guards. His expression was neutral, neither gloating nor distressed.

Grelka steamed. _Is this nothing but business to you? I'll see if I can't make it personal._

* * *

Grelka had never been to jail before. A female guard took her to a small room and made her strip. They took her armor, her belt knife, all the coin she'd made that day. They gave her filthy rags a beggar would have found shameful. They're trying to humiliate me, she realized. I won't show anything. She tried to make her face as impassive as an Argonian as the guard led her down the row of cells. The cells were mercifully unoccupied for the most part, except for a large one at the end. A cell with—curtains? From behind the curtain she heard a woman's heart-breaking sobs. And then, a man's laugh.

Grelka stiffened. The guard also stiffened. She rattled her keys, looking for the one to the cell opposite the curtains. Alerted by the sound, the curtain opened. A man came forward. Unlike Grelka, he was richly dressed.

"You there," the man said. Grelka was astonished to see that he was addressing the guard in the same tones she'd heard rich travelers order a horse from the stable. And Grelka was even more astonished to see the guard turn in deference.

"Lord Black-Briar?" the guard said.

"Take this wench away. She's useless and much too whiny." He turned. "You there. Out."

From the back of the cell, a battered woman crept out. She didn't wear the skimpy prisoner garb Grelka wore, but her suggestive outfit was torn and bloodstained. The guard turned her back on Grelka and opened the man's cell. The woman whimpered and limped out.

"No sport at all," the man complained. He looked around the guard and saw Grelka. "Well, well, well. What have we here?"

"She's a prisoner," the guard said shortly. "Not a whore."

"So?" the man said. "I don't insist on paying. She looks like a talented amateur to me. Tell me, sweetie, are you a whiner?" Grelka gave him a haughty look. "I thought not. I can always tell. Let me introduce myself," he continued. "I'm Sibbi Black-Briar." Obviously that was supposed to mean something to her. "So what brings you to this fine correctional facility?"

When she didn't answer, the helpful guard said, "Assault."

"Assault?" Sibbi grinned. "How lovely. And who did you assault? A former lover, perhaps? Some faithless churl?"

"She punched Brynjolf in the market," the guard said. "Broke his nose."

"Brynjolf? The thief?" Sibbi laughed. "And I'm sure he deserved to be assaulted. I've wanted to hit him anytime these past five years but, alas, fate has always intervened. Having trouble with the Thieves Guild, are you, sweetie? Come here and be nice to your new friend Sibbi. I can make all your problems go away."

"No thanks," Grelka said.

Sibbi turned to the guard. "Put her in here." Grelka's stomach dropped. To her relief, the guard shook her head.

"Lady Black-Briar said—"

"Good old 'mother' doesn't have to know a thing."

Grelka gave the guard a look. "Put me in with him and I won't just be in here for assault. It will be for murder."

Grelka was serious but Sibbi laughed. "That's the spirit!" He looked at the guard. "Tie her hands behind her back and put her in here. I'll make it worth your while." The guard continued to hesitate. "I get what I want. You know I do. But for today, I'll let it slide. I'm not really up for another little party just yet. Tomorrow's another story." He winked at Grelka. "See you later, sweetie."

The guard took her to another cell, one out of eyesight of Sibbi's luxurious den. "I'm doing you a favor," she hissed. "Behave and you'll be out tomorrow morning. But cause me any trouble, any trouble at all, and I'll see that you spend tomorrow night with Sibbi there. You won't like it, not one little bit."

Grelka didn't say a word. Her entire body was rigid with self control. But inside, she trembled. Madness had stared from Sibbi Black-Briar's skeever-like eyes. For perhaps the first time in her life, she was afraid. Deeply, truly afraid. And she realized she was not going to cause trouble. Not any trouble at all.

* * *

Grelka felt the stares and the smirks of the guards when she trudged back to her market stall the next day. Maybe she imagined them. This is beyond ridiculous, she thought. _This is stupid._ _Why am I here? They steal every septim I make. I need to go back to Whiterun. In Whiterun I can get ahead, send Mjoll and Balimund what I owe them. I'm never going to win at this crooked game. I'm never going to get Frost back, never going to get anything back. I need to go home. What's keeping me here other than stubborn pride?_

She slammed the armor she was carrying on her counter in a haphazard pile.

"Want to live to tell about it?" she shouted. The guard who lounged across from her stall jumped. "Buy armor from Grelka," she called to no one in particular.

The morning dragged on. Grelka's landlady crossed the square to join her.

"That scowl of yours is scaring off the customers," Haelga said.

Grelka grunted. _Mara help me, I sound just like Eorlund._

"You should learn to relax," Haelga said. "Enjoy life. Something wonderful might happen at any moment."

"Yeah," Grelka said. "Riften might burn to the ground again."

"Is that any way to talk? Besides, Riften won't burn. We have a fire pump. Paid double tax to the jarl this year for it." Haelga leaned over the counter in a move calculated to display a generous amount of cleavage. Grelka could practically see the waves of hatred flowing from all the married ladies in the square. Grelka found Haelga's company trying at the best of times. On a positive note, her presence had driven off the pickpockets. Haelga was chattering about some man—there was always some man—and although she didn't name names she usually dropped enough broad clues that names were quite unnecessary. Grelka let this flow over her like the wind. And then Haelga froze in mid-conquest, so to speak.

"Oh, my," she said.

Grelka didn't look up from the gauntlet she was reinforcing. "Fresh meat?" she asked.

"Oh, the freshest. Look at those shoulders! Look at those thighs!"

Grelka sighed.

"He just came out of the temple. He's going to the smithy. You know, I think I need some nails. Was just thinking that this morning. I could really use some nails."

"In case you need to get hammered?" Grelka muttered. Luckily Haelga wasn't listening.

"He's talking to Balimund. Nice face. Nice arms. Nice tight bu—er, everything. Not too sure about the beard but I'm sure I've got a razor around somewhere. Oh! He's looking this way! Do I look all right?" Haelga bit her lips and adjusted her blouse to show more of her charms. "Oh, Dibella, yes! He's coming this way! He's smiling at me!"

Grelka finally looked up. Her mouth opened in a silent O. She mouthed his name. Thorald? The crowd parted for him in a congenial way it never parted for her. _He's gotten so big! Has he always been that big?_ And then he was right before her, with those bright blue eyes and open smile. And scruffy beard. _Divines, would it ever grow in properly?_ And then his arms were around her waist and her arms were around his neck. For a moment, a brief moment, Riften and the rest of the horrible world went away.

But then the horrible world was back, tugging at her sleeve.

"Who's your friend?" Haelga asked.

Grelka ignored her. "So. Are we making up?"

Thorald's laugh was a rumble against her chest. "Of course."

"Just like that? What, no flowers, no candy? No liquor?"

"What was I thinking?" And then, before the increasingly interested crowd, he dropped to one knee and broke into a sappy old love song. Grelka nudged his shoulder.

"Shut up! Shhh! What are you doing?" she hissed.

He grinned and continued singing as if she hadn't interrupted. His voice, his fine, clear voice, rose over the square. At the dramatic finale, the crowd burst into applause. His teeth flashed. "I'm really sorry for being such a fool," he told her. "Please forgive me."

For a moment she couldn't speak but he seemed satisfied by what he saw in her face. "So that's settled then, I hope," he said. He got up, brushed off his knees. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

At that point Haelga broke in. "If you need a place to stay, I have a private room at my bunkhouse. Your, uh, friend here is staying there as well."

Grelka was perfectly aware that the only private room at the bunkhouse was Haelga's nasty little love nest.

"Maybe we could go to the inn?" he suggested. "I've had a long ride and my tongue's hanging out. If I don't get a drink soon, I can't answer for the consequences."

"I'm banned," she said shortly.

"You're banned from the inn? You?" Grelka gave a miserable nod. "That must be quite the story. Is there a tavern?"

"Only the Ragged Flagon," Haelga said.

"I can't go there either," Grelka said.

"At the stables they said there's a meadery in town," Thorald said. "I expect they have a tasting room."

"No!"

Thorald blinked. "How long have you been in Riften? Sounds like you've been busy." Grelka felt tears come to her eyes.

"Oh, Thorald, I've made such a mess of things! This awful town! They stole my horse and my money and everything! Even my tools!"

"They threw your tools in the canal," Haelga said. Grelka turned.

"What?"

"Yeah, your clothes, tools, everything they didn't want. Right over the rail." She pointed. Somehow that made everything worse. One hot tear spilled over. Thorald took Grelka's arm.

"Find us someplace to talk," he said.

They ended up at the end of a deserted dock with a couple of bottles of ale.

"Enough of my tale of woe," she said when she finally unburdened herself. "Why are you in Riften? How did you know I was here?"

Thorald choked back the fury that had been building ever since he saw Grelka fighting tears in the market square. Grelka, in tears! He would have rather faced the World-Eater.

"No one would tell me but Aela dropped a hint," he said. "But I'm here on business as well."

"Stormcloak business?" she asked.

"Not exactly." He decided this was not the best time to get into a discussion about dragons and being the Dragonborn. Whatever that meant. "I'm looking for someone. He's said to be in a place called the Ratway. Do you know it?"

He saw Grelka shudder. "Don't go in that place alone."

"I have a friend who is going to help me," he said. "As soon as he gets healed up."

"Oh, yeah? I'm coming too."

"Fine," he said. "But that's for later. I do have some other things I have to take care of first. Are you going to be okay?"

"I am now," she said. "Get a room at the Bee and Barb. Whatever you do, don't come to Haelga's Pit of Oblivion. She'll have you undressed before you can say 'Shor, Help Me!'."

"Undressed? What do you mean?"

"Don't ask. And hold onto your coin purse, for Mara's sake. There's a pickpocket on every corner."

* * *

Thorald knew the name of the ranking Stormcloak officer, Vulwulf Snow-Shod. Thorald met him at the inn and was swept off to a private room upstairs. The man was older than Thorald expected, and he wondered when he had last seen active service. He was knowledgeable however. Thorald shared his concerns for the city's defense, not just from the Empire but from dragons.

"The city guard walks the town in Stormcloak colors," Vulwulf warned. "But don't let that fool you. These are Maven Black-Briar's men first and Ulfric's second. A long second at that. You want to get anything done in this town, you go talk to Maven. Don't bother with that ice-brained jarl of ours. And don't bother with that poncy elf of a steward. You go talk to Maven. She's got a decent head on her shoulders, Maven does. There's a group of concerned citizens in town, led by a warrior called Mjoll. Might be worth talking to her. But Maven's the real law in this town. You mess with her, you'll be in jail. If you're lucky."

"And if you're not lucky?"

Vulwulf's smile turned from serious to grim. "Face down in the canal," he said.

This confirmed what Etienne had told him on their long ride across Skyrim. According to him, Maven Black-Briar ran not just the Thieves Guild but the Rift itself as her own personal treasure house, to be used or plundered at will. _And this is the woman you serve above Jarl Ulfric?_ For it was clear that Vulwulf admired Maven Black-Briar. Thorald didn't like the thought of dealing with her. But he was refused an appointment with the guard captain. At Mistveil Palace, he did get a few minutes of the steward's time. He told her he'd come from Whiterun and had been involved in the city's fight against the dragon. But as soon as he mentioned he had ties to the Companions (which he thought would be a helpful credential) she became unaccountably chilly.

"Looking for a contract, are you?" she said down her nose. "Let me assure you, the city's defense is excellent. Our jarl has everything under control. We have no need for your 'services'."

And he couldn't get her to listen. He had no choice but to tackle the matriarch herself.

* * *

To Thorald's surprise, he had no difficulty in arranging a meeting with Maven. She invited him to her house. He wasn't sure what he had expected but what he found was a commanding woman with an intelligent look to her. She listened to what he had to say in silence.

"So you offer to share your experience fighting dragons with the city's guard. And what do you expect in return?"

"In return?" Thorald asked.

"What payment do you expect?"

"I'm not looking for a job! These dragons are dangerous. They must be stopped. I'm asking for a chance to teach what I know."

"Ah. I see. Very well, Thorald Gray-Mane. I see no harm in this and possibly some good. I will speak with the steward and she will make sure that our guard captain sets up a meeting. Is there anything else?"

"There is a personal matter."

"Ah." Her lips curved to mimic a smile.

"I understand you have recently purchased a horse. His name is Frost. I would like to buy that horse from you."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Grelka said men in Black-Briar livery had taken Frost. Or so she'd been told. "You may have been given a forged bill of sale for the horse. May I ask how much he cost?"

Maven's eyes turned from cold and assessing to downright steely. "I _said_ I don't know what you're talking about."

Thorald wasn't by nature easily daunted but he could feel his resolve wither under that gaze. Particularly when he realized that his coin purse wouldn't possibly stretch to purchase a horse, even if she had offered it to him.

"I see," Thorald said. "Well, I thank you for your time."

* * *

Once Thorald Gray-Mane left, Mercer Frey stepped out from behind the long window curtain.

"You heard all that?" Maven asked him.

"I did."

"So this is the young man the Thalmor are raising such a fuss about? Interesting. "

"This is the so-called Dragonborn?" Mercer said. "Didn't look too impressive to me. Typical beefy brainless Nord." At Maven's raised brows, he added, "No offense. But Dragonborn? Sounds like a load of superstitious nonsense."

"Who can say? The Dragonborn is a legend but so too are dragons. Yet dragons have been sighted at several places across Skyrim. Perhaps the Dragonborn is real as well. And he's a Stormcloak. Rising fast through the ranks. I hear Ulfric's crusty old general thinks Thorald Gray-Mane hung the moons. It takes more than a little to impress Galmar Stone-Fist. Or perhaps you think the general is yet another beefy, brainless Nord?"

"What do you think this man really wants?" Mercer asked, after a pause too sterile to be called pregnant.

"If I'm not mistaken," she said slowly, "He wants to be a hero." Mercer laughed. Maven did not.

"Come now. A hero?" Mercer scoffed. "In this day and age? Next you'll say he's in the service of the gods."

"Yes, a hero. I don't know who he serves. Let's wait and see what happens before taking any definitive action. He's going to be a thorn or an asset."

"Or both," Mercer said.

"As you say. But we know how to deal with thorns. And speaking of thorns." She gave him a slow, long look. "If this business with the horse comes back to bite me, I will not be pleased. Your guild has failed me again and again, Mercer. I'm beginning to question if there is any profitability in our continued relationship."

* * *

After Mercer left, Maven sent for Anuriel.

"That horse Brynjolf brought, is it still at the lodge?" she asked abruptly. Anuriel was not pleased at having to excuse herself from Laila, who was under the mistaken belief that she was actually her employer. Too many excuses lately. Laila was peeved. She didn't yell. Anuriel could handle yelling. She whined.

"I believe so," she said.

"Put it on the first ship to Solitude," Maven said.

"Solitude?"

"Yes, it shall be a wedding present for the emperor's cousin. Have them put a ribbon in its mane or something."

"I don't believe horses travel well by ship," Anuriel said.

"No? We don't want the damned thing dying or arriving sick," Maven said. "Then I'd have to come up with another gift. Very well. Have it travel with the next mead shipment to Solitude. Tell Maul I want him to see to this personally. I want that horse out of here."

"There will be a shipment in a couple of days, I believe."

"Good."

"Is there a problem about the horse?"

"There better not be."


	17. Trouble on the Move

_Author's Note: I had fun with this chapter, hope you like it. Updates may get a bit slower with Nanowrimo coming. Please review! Would love some feedback._

**17: Trouble on the Move**

The trip to Riften should have been simple and swift. The Third Emissary's sense of urgency meant that the Thalmor left Whiterun Hold without resupplying. We'll pick up what we need on the road, was Rulindil's breezy response to Ancano's objection. Ancano realized further objections would be reported as over-cautiousness or even obstructionism. And normally their remaining supplies would have been plenty to get them to Riften. Ancano was accustomed to western Skyrim, where the Thalmor traveled openly, when and where they pleased. This deep in Stormcloak territory, he soon learned, the situation was shockingly different. They had actually been set upon by Nords twice. Cursed Talos worshippers! The first group they killed, not without some difficulty. Several battle mages had been seriously injured, requiring a lengthy stop for healing. Rulindil actually spoke of leaving them behind. And he'd been overheard, the fool, which plummeted the group's morale to a new low.

The second band of Nords was larger and better armed. The Thalmor were actually forced to flee and one of their packhorses was captured. Naturally, it was the one carrying the bulk of their food. Some of the radical ideas he'd heard voiced about purging Skyrim of Nords were beginning to sound pretty reasonable.

The next day they'd come across a group of Dunmer traveling to Riften. Elenwen's little toady suggested they remove their Thalmor robes and group up with them as camouflage. Ancano hadn't liked the idea—traveling with Dunmer? For protection? But at Rulindil's urging, he'd agreed. The Dunmer led them on a long detour to the south, deep into the mountains, to avoid a Stormcloak camp. Or so they said. During a rest break, a large and vicious pack of trolls boiled out of a nearby cave. Ancano had always thought trolls were solitary creatures but here they were. While the battle mages destroyed the beasts, the Dunmer fled, taking the rest of their food, most of their cooking gear, Ancano's large tent (which he had been reluctantly sharing with Rulindil) and half of the horses. The troopers now forced to walk were (to put it mildly) disgruntled.

Ancano could only assume they had been deliberately led to the troll cave. Purging the Dunmer might not be such a bad idea either.

The toady fumed all the next day. "We should track them down," Rulindil said. "Make them pay." His eyes burned. "Get my horse back."

"My scout says the Dunmer are now heading west. Are you suggesting we delay our mission? Or split our forces?" Ancano asked. Any elves he sent west would likely desert the moment they reached Imperial territory. He could hardly blame them.

"How dare these people treat us like this? Don't they understand we have conquered them?"

_Was he truly so ignorant?_ Had Elenwen picked Rulindil solely for his pretty looks? Ancano bit back his irritation. What the Aldmeri Dominion had at the moment was not a victory. They had fought the Empire to a bloody standstill. Fairly decent terms had been carved at the White-Gold Tower, thanks to the skill of the diplomats, but true victory—and it would come, he never doubted that—was in the future. Why did Rulindil think they were in Skyrim to begin with? For his personal advancement? While the Thalmor rebuilt their lost troops and resources, it was critically important to prevent Cyrodiil and Skyrim from doing the same. Divines knew these humans bred like rabbits. That's why maintaining the civil war was so important. That's why these dragons could be so important. If the dragons could be controlled, they could devastate Skyrim better than any civil war. And if they could be controlled, perhaps they could be turned towards Hammerfell next. Or even Cyrodiil.

"We need to go back to Ivarstead," Ancano said. "I doubt they have horses for sale but at least we can get food."

"Go back?" Rulindil said. His voice rose in frustration. Nothing was going the way he'd planned. Ancano understood perfectly. However he was acutely aware of the sullen, hungry, antagonistic troopers watching them, and motioned to the toady to step away for some privacy. The toady didn't pick up the hint. "We're not going back. We're going on to Riften."

"How? Our supplies are gone."

"We'll live off the land."

"Hunt for our food?" Ancano asked. "Are you serious? How does that save time?"

"Do you claim to be less competent than the locals we've conquered?" Ancano stared. _Do I look like some rustic Bosmer, ready to track down a rabbit and cook it over an open fire? _"We will go onward," Rulindil said. "Not backward."

Ancano looked at the smoking troll corpses scattered across the clearing. Perhaps they were edible. Ugh. He took a breath and sought the right words to persuade his elite and temperamental battle mages to turn their talents to foraging for food.

* * *

Traveling with Babette was amazing, Aventus thought. They mostly moved by night, which was weird at first but once he got used to sleeping during the day, he found it exhilarating. And then there was the horse. He'd never seen anything like Shadowmere. Surely no other such horse existed anywhere in the world. He was huge! His hoofs were the size of dinner plates and his _eyes!_ They were scarier than Babette's. The two of them could ride his broad back with no problem at all. Once a pack of wolves made the mistake of attacking them. Shadowmere stomped them to goo before he'd had time to get scared.

Nothing scared Babette. She was amazing.

She knew the Rift. She found an abandoned farm not far from the city and told Shadowmere to wait for them there. She talked to the horse like he was human and called him her brother. He certainly seemed to understand her. They had seen quite a few abandoned farms as they travelled and Aventus thought it was because of the war. But Babette said it was because years ago, the Rift had a bad old jarl who set taxes real high. A lot of people left the hold. The ones who stayed got so mad that they set his palace on fire while he was still inside. They burned him up. Too bad for them that most of the town caught on fire too. So now Riften wasn't nearly as big as it used to be.

Aventus wished he could live to be three hundred years old. Then history wouldn't be a story, it would be a memory. Of course then she'd be six hundred. So he'd never catch up. But maybe then it wouldn't matter.

They mingled with a group of travelers the next day. Babette wore a cape with a hood pulled over her eyes to keep the sun out. They walked to the palace, Mistveil Keep. From its shadow they could watch Honorhall. The orphanage. Aventus had expected to feel anger and maybe fear at seeing his old 'home'. But mainly he felt anticipation. For he was with Babette and she took away fear.

"Do you know the jarl?" he asked idly.

"Laila Law-Giver? Not really. I knew her mother. She was silly and rather stupid but they say this one is even worse. I know the court mage though. Wylandriah. I know her from Winterhold."

"You went to the mage college?" At this point nothing much would surprise Aventus. He'd already seen her do little bits of magic, like starting fires and healing his saddle sores.

"Not as a student, no, but they have a very fine library. I was astonished when she wrote that she was moving to Riften. Never thought she'd become a court mage, of all things. Wylandriah is rather, um, unworldly. I thought she'd be in research for life. Anyway, I mention her because if we become separated and you need help, go see Wylandriah. Tell her you're a friend of mine and she'll take care of you."

"Are we going to be separated?"

"Yes, we are. I'm going to find us a nice safe place in the Ratway to hole up for the rest of the day. And then I'm going to do a little surveillance."

"When are you going to kill Grelod?"

"When the time is right."

When the time was right. Aventus thought that sounded just fine.

* * *

In a surprisingly short time, Thorald had arranged a big meeting not just with the city guard captain, but also the steward, the court mage and a cross-section of concerned townsfolk, mostly business owners. Even Hemming Black-Briar and his daughter Ingun were there. Mjoll had been instrumental in setting this up. Grelka wasn't particularly surprised to see that Thorald and Mjoll had hit it off like old friends. Thorald had always had that ability to enter a room of strangers and leave with a bunch of pals. How he did it, she had no idea.

But more than his personal charm was working for him. News from Helgen, Whiterun and now Kynesgrove had rolled in and dragons were the main topic of conversation in the town. The meeting was held in the Bee and Barb and ended up taking over the whole downstairs of the inn. Every table was crowded and Keerava had brought in extra benches. Neither she nor Talen-Jei said anything about Grelka being banned, perhaps because she had come in with Thorald. The room buzzed with anticipation. And then Thorald stood up and began to talk about dragons.

He described their size, their appearance, how they fought, how they could flame from the air. He had actual samples of their scales, bones and teeth that he passed around. The townsfolk handled these with awe, like religious artifacts. Grelka felt a bit awed herself. Dragons were back. They were real. Thorald had killed two of them.

Wow.

He stressed the importance of disabling their wings. He said it would take magic and archers to do so. They must work together as a team.

"With these dragons about, fire is on our mind. When are we going to see the test of the new fire protection system?" Bersi Honey-Hand asked the steward. Several others chimed in. The steward, looking flustered, was interrupted every time she tried to speak. Thorald held up his hands.

"In Whiterun we don't have the advantage you have of being right on a lake but we do have cisterns to provide fire water. And we have a dedicated group of volunteers to fight fires. Perhaps you have something similar?" There was another long group discussion that Grelka tuned out of, but in the end it seemed no real decisions were made.

The talk got wilder from there. Someone asked if the Companions could be hired to help defend the town. Someone asked the court mage how she was going to help and she began a largely inaudible report. Test the fire system first, some heckler yelled and the mage abruptly sat down, in mid sentence. Someone wondered if fishing nets could be used to tangle the dragon's feet or wings. Thorald suggested cross bows with heavy bolts and he said they'd also had some success with throwing spears. Bolli, the owner of the fishery, suggested harpoons. He offered to help train any of the guard or militia who was interested in their use.

"What about poison?" Ingun Black-Briar asked.

"I don't know," Thorald said. "I have never actually seen a dragon eat. I wouldn't know how to bait one."

"We could poison our weapons," she said.

"Now that is an interesting idea."

"Do you suppose their physiology is based upon lizards? Birds? Something else?"

Thorald gave her a baffled look. "I really don't know."

"Perhaps you could let me have one of these scales and a bit of bone? I can run some tests. Maybe something corrosive could penetrate these scales."

Grelka had a hard time imagining anything corrosive enough to eat through a scale that wouldn't eat through the weapon first. But the guard captain was nodding his head.

"We need some kind of bomb," he suggested. "I've seen it done during the Great War. You put the poison in a jar and throw it at the target."

"Just remember we're going to throwing these bombs over our own city," Balimund said.

Keerava stepped from behind the bar. "Thorald Gray-Mane," she said. "It is said that you are the Dragonborn. That you are the only one who can kill a dragon. Are you going to stay in Riften and help us fight?"

With astonishment, she saw Thorald flush. He was embarrassed? About some stupid rumor? She waited him to deny it. She waited for him to laugh. With growing wrath she saw that for once in his life, he was caught wordless.

"Anyone can kill a dragon," he finally said. "I didn't strike the killing blow at Kynesgrove."

"But you can take its soul," Keerava said. "No one else can do that. That is what is being said. That is why we need you to stay here."

And still he didn't deny it!

"I have other duties," he said. "But I will stay as long as I can."

The meeting finally wound down.

"I'll walk you home," Thorald said. He gave her a sideways look that said he knew he had trouble coming.

"The Bunkhouse isn't home," she said. "It's where I'm stuck at the moment." Home, here? Gah. The second he looked away, Grelka punched him in the arm.

"Ow!"

"Dragonborn. Are you the Dragonborn?" He looked guilty. Guilty! "You are, aren't you? Gah! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was working up to it."

She punched him again. "You let me go on and on about my stupid troubles and you couldn't find five minutes to tell me something like this? Grr!"

"I'm really sorry."

"Not as sorry as you're going to be," she muttered.

"Oh boy."

The worst of it was that she believed him. That Thorald Gray-Mane, a boy she'd known since she was a girl, could be a hero—maybe the hero sent by the gods to save the entire world—it should have been incredible. Unbelievable. And yet she believed. Hadn't she always known that he was special? Chosen? They walked on in silence. They passed Haelga's Bunkhouse. Finally Grelka said, "Where are we going?"

"Out to the stables," he said. "I've got something to show you." She gave him a dubious look. "In my saddle bags. It's a present."

"Hrm. It better be nice."

"I'm hoping you'll think so."

xxx

Hofgrir, the stable master, still had no news of Frost. Grelka nodded, unsurprised. Thorald led her to the tack room where he'd stored his saddle and gear.

"Oh. Oh, my."

Thorald grinned at Grelka's reaction as he dumped the load of shining dragon scales from his loaded pack. She crouched to stare at the loose pile and ran her hands through them.

"They're so light," she said.

"I guess they have to be if the creature can fly." But she wasn't listening. Like a Dwemer construct, he could practically see the gears in her mind meshing as she picked up one scale after another, turning and flexing them in her hands and holding them in different positions.

"Let's gather them back up and take them to the smithy," he said.

"Hrm."

Sky above, he hated it when she sounded just like his father.

* * *

The Thalmor arrived in Riften at night. Rulindil had arranged to leave their few remaining horses with a farmer outside of town. Another Dunmer. Ugh. Ancano had the strange precognition that they'd never see those horses again. To Ancano's discomfort, the toady went alone to meet with the gate guard. He knew a code to get them smuggled into the city and to set up an audience with Maven Black-Briar, Elenwen's contact in the city. Somewhat to Ancano's disappointment, this went off without a hitch and they soon found themselves inside an abandoned warehouse near the docks.

Maven met with them personally. Ancano had met her before, of course, at the embassy at Solitude. There she had been a confident woman of great personal power. Here, in her home city, she was—what? The only word Ancano could make fit was regal. Here she was a jarl in every way but name. Not only did she know it, everyone else did as well.

She provided a scruffy human called Thrynn to serve as their guide to the city's sewer system. This person was a thief, apparently, and their liaison to the Thieves Guild which operated under the city.

"Do you know where this Esbern is?" Ancano asked.

"Not for sure," the thief said. "Lots of layabouts down in the sewers, beggars and crazies, skooma addicts and such. But we'll find him, never you fear."

Ancano thanked Maven for her help.

"You must not show yourself in town," she warned. "This is a Stormcloak city and there are those who will stone you on sight. I cannot be seen openly helping you or I will lose credibility."

"I didn't know you cared about such things," Ancano couldn't resist saying. She gave him a cold look.

"Don't be a fool. One must always care about one's credibility." True enough, Ancano supposed.

"Is there anything else I need to know?" he asked. She gave him a frigid look before she shook her head and dismissed them.

Afterwards, when they had set up a makeshift camp in the Ratway, and when he'd sent Thrynn with the rest of their gold to fetch them all something to eat, he turned to the toady.

"Did you get the impression Maven was holding something back?" he asked.

Rulindil gave him a haughty look. "She is an ambitious woman. She would be a fool to cross Elenwen in any way."

But Ancano wasn't so sure. Maven had developed a broad power base over many years. The Thalmor were useful to her—and she to them—but it was clear she felt not the smallest scrap of subservience to them. Or, he suspected, to anyone.

* * *

Getting into the orphanage was easy when you were with someone who could see in the dark and was strong enough to boost you over the wall. Babette gave him a knife. It was long and really sharp.

"Poison?" she asked in a low whisper. She offered Aventus a little bottle of thick green goo to spread on his blade. It smelled really bad. The orphanage was smaller than he remembered, mean and depressing. He wondered if anyone here still remembered him. He'd first come here, when, a year ago? Was it longer than that? The guard who'd escorted him from Windhelm had spent the trip telling him how he'd love it here. He'd have lessons and friends and Grelod the Kind to make sure no harm would come to him. Then they arrived and his guard got a good look at Honorhall. He said nothing but his silence said plenty.

And then they were in Grelod's room. Aventus had never been there before. The funny, old lady smell made him want to sneeze. Grelod had a lamp burning on a table in her room. She never allowed the children to have a lamp at night, no matter how frightened any of them were of the dark. Aventus wondered if Grelod the Kind was afraid of the dark.

She should be. She really should be.

Grelod lay in her bed. Her mouth was open. She snored. She had the covers half thrown off like she was hot. He was going to plunge his knife in her heart but Babette mimed cutting her throat. And she was right. It was easier that way. He was surprised how easy it was. Grelod was alive and snoring. And then she was dead and silent. There was a lot of blood, all down her neck and soaking into the covers.

Babette smiled in an approving sort of way.

"Hail Sithis," he heard her whisper. She had him put his hand in the blood—it seemed scalding hot—and leave a bloody handprint on the wall. And then she reached under the bed and pulled out a heavy chest. There was more gold than he had ever seen or even dreamt about. She took out her coin purse and pragmatically filled it.

"Take as much as you want," she whispered. He filled his pockets.

"Let's leave the rest for the others," he said. "For the kids." She shrugged.

"It will probably get stolen but I suppose that doesn't matter."

Gold. Did it matter? Aventus supposed it did not. He followed her back to the Ratway.

"We're not going to leave the city?" he asked.

"Not tonight. The city gates are closed and the guards won't open them for a pair of sweet helpless children." She grinned. "Let's lay up here for the night, at least," she said. "Let the excitement die down. Besides, don't you want to hear what people say? After all, your nemesis has been assassinated."

Did he want to hear? At one time nothing would have pleased him more. At one time he wanted the city to denounce Grelod for her wicked ways. Now she was wicked no more. Now she was dead. "I'm just glad it's done," he said. "I thought I would feel angry or vengeful or something. But you know, I'm just glad it's done." She nodded. "What did that mean, what you said before? Hail Sithis? Who is Sithis?"

"What? Where did you hear that?"

"From you. You said it in Grelod's room after I, well, you know."

"I didn't say anything."

"You did. I heard you."

She gave him a thoughtful look. "Did you?" she said softly. "How interesting. How very, very interesting."

"And Babette—thank you."

"You did the work."

"I couldn't have done anything, if not for you." He smiled. "I want to be like you."

"You want to be a vampire?"

"I want to be an assassin!"

She laughed. "Maybe I should bring you home and let you meet my family. And then you can decide."

Home. Aventus liked the sound of that.


	18. Pride Goeth Before--Splat

_Author's Note: This chapter's a bit short but I had fun with it. Hope you do too._

**18: Pride Goeth Before...Splat**

Grelka carried one of the smaller scales in her pocket and fingered it constantly.

"How I wish I had my tools," she complained. Again.

"Didn't Haelga say they were in the canal?" Thorald asked.

"Yeah. Gone forever."

"Oh, I don't know. They certainly wouldn't float away. I expect we can find them down there." Once Thorald latched onto an idea, he was hard to deflect, although Grelka certainly tried. She followed him down the rickety steps to the canal level, protesting all the way.

"You can't go in there. This is foolish. The water is filthy! You'll catch a disease."

"If I do, the temple is right across the square." The healers had finally released Thorald's new friend, Etienne, and he'd disappeared into the Ratway, seeking vengeance. Or information. Or information leading to vengeance. Grelka didn't have much sympathy for anyone in the Thieves Guild, but Stendarr's mercy! Tortured by the Thalmor for days? Not even a thief deserved that.

"But Thorald, you can't swim!"

"I can swim. Sort of."

"You can barely dog-paddle!"

"That's all I need. It doesn't look that deep. Besides, the water is so thick I can practically walk on it." He pulled off his shirt. His boots. His pants.

"You're going to freeze in that nasty water."

"Sun's out. I'll be okay. You know, on second thought, I think I'll put my boots back on."

"They'll be ruined. The water is so dirty you can't see where you're stepping. I don't need my tools this bad. Balimund's are fine. Really."

He grinned at her. "Come now, you're supposed to be all impressed with my heroics!"

"Idiot!"

But he just laughed and plunged into the water. "Talos, that's cold!" he yelled when he emerged a moment later with an empty mead bottle. He threw it up on the walkway and submerged again. More bottles followed. "That one was broken," he said, displaying a bloody hand.

"We need to get that bandaged," she said.

"Naw, it's nothing."

"You're going to get a disease."

"You already said that."

The typical Riften crowd of gawkers began to form.

"My, my, he certainly strips well," Haelga purred in Grelka's ear. Grelka suppressed the urge to push her landlady into the foul water. The cold bath might do her good but why give Haelga an excuse to take her clothes off? Thorald saw her and waved.

"Is this where they threw her things?" he hollered up.

"Maybe more that way," Haelga said, with a languid wave.

Grelka heard whispers behind her. Is that the Dragonborn? What's he doing? Why is he in the water? And she heard Haelga fill the nosy people in. More busybodies began to line the rails and a few trooped down to the canal level for a better look.

"Do you suppose the meadery will buy back all those bottles?" someone asked.

"Maybe. The real question is, will they wash them before refilling them?"

Balimund clumped down the stairs to stand beside Grelka.

"Getting to be quite the party," he said. She looked around and realized he was right. And then Madesi joined them. He didn't say anything to Grelka but he gave her a nod and then began to strip down to his loincloth.

"Could you use some assistance, land-strider?" he called out to Thorald. Thorald's white teeth flashed in a grin.

"Absolutely!"

Grelka looked at the pattern of scales on the lizard's broad back. The Argonian slid into the water without even a splash. She fingered the scale in her pocket. They should lay together just so, she thought. Last night she had spread all the dragon scales out on the floor, had moved them and arranged them over and over. Like so, she thought. Like so. I can almost feel it.

Balimund, deciding to take a holiday from work as, apparently, the rest of the town, sent to the inn for refreshments. Talen-Jei brought out two large trays of mead and snacks and was greeted with a roar of approval from the folks now crowding the lower walkway. The Argonian stared in astonishment. He gazed into the canal. Not long afterwards, he and Keerava came out and joined the divers. Grinning like a kid, Bersi Honey-Hand rowed into the canal in a flat bottomed skiff and began to dredge the bottom with a long-handled net. The crowd cried out at each new discovery, prosaic as they were.

A cart wheel. A candy dish. A chamber pot. There was a regular little mountain of leaky buckets, broken jars and the ubiquitous mead bottles.

"Hey, you there, boy," someone yelled from the upper level. "Yeah, you in the Thieves Guild armor. Why don't you go lend a hand?"

"Huh. Why should I?"

"Go help the Dragonborn, you layabout."

Another voice joined in. "Aren't you the one that threw that girl's stuff in the canal?"

"Wasn't me."

"Oh, yeah? It was one of you lot. And why should we believe you, you damned thief?"

"Why should I care what you believe? Piss off." His voice rose. "Hey! Watch it!" There was a scuffle and an urgent cry. "Hey! I can't swim!"

"You'll learn," someone promised. Thrown over the rail, the thief hit the water with a wail and a huge splash.

"Ask the Argonians for lessons," someone shouted gleefully.

Mjoll came and stood beside Grelka.

"Would this have happened yesterday?" Grelka asked, looking around. "Would they have tangled with the guild?"

"People have been ready for a change for a long time now," Mjoll said. "Everyone's lost something to the thieves. The townsfolk would love to see anything recovered from them. But I think this is mostly your man's doing. He brings hope."

Grelka squeezed the scale in her pocket. Yes. He did. He never seemed to know when things were impossible. Long ago, at the Eldergleam, he'd climbed the tree like gravity didn't apply to him. Kynareth has touched him, the priestess had said. And watching him now, she had to believe. He compelled belief. It was impossible to find a small bag of tools in this huge nasty canal. But Madesi found them. He raised the bag in triumph and the whole city cheered him. They cheered an Argonian! Grelka cheered with them.

Thorald came out of the water, lips blue with cold. He bounded over to her, cheerful and practical. Here's your tools. That Madesi's a good man. Lizard. Whatever. Make a new bow, he told her. You're going to need it. As if there was no doubt she would be by his side, fighting dragons or whatever it was he had to do. And she realized that was exactly where she wanted to be. By his side. Fighting. And she wanted more than that. She wanted to make him armor like the world hadn't seen in centuries. She turned the scale in her hand.

* * *

When Vipir squelched into the Ragged Flagon, dripping from his unexpected dunking and burning with rage, all eyes turned to Mercer Frey. What did they expect, the guild master wondered. They think I can just wave my hands and make everything all better?

Unbelievable.

They complain about lack of respect from the town, he thought. What makes them think I hold them in any less contempt than the townsfolk do? Failure after failure. That's all he got from these incompetent fools. Just the other day, Brynjolf was bragging in the Flagon about a horse he'd swindled away from some rube. A horse. As if that made up for the debacle at Goldenglow Estate. He clearly remembered the reaming he'd taken from Maven Black-Briar. First Vex had gone in and found the estate swarming with private guards, who drove her off and damned near killed her. Brynjolf and a couple of his lads had gone back in to burn a few hives but the wind shifted and they all caught fire. All the hives, totally destroyed. Inside, he found the estate deserted and nothing in the vaults but a cryptic bill of sale.

"Your guild has certainly gone downhill since Gallus died," Maven had said. "I'm beginning to wonder if you're of any use to me at all."

"Is that a threat?" he asked.

"Damned right it is a threat. I cannot abide incompetence."

Neither could Mercer.

Mercer endured Maven's fury and scorn because he hadn't been ready to act.

He wouldn't endure her again. He was ready now.

He wondered how long it would be before Brynjolf and Delvin checked the guild vault. He wished he had some way to see their faces when they realized all the treasure was gone. All of it. For months, he'd cleared things out, bit by bit. That inconvenient nobody, Etienne Rarnis, had even seen him do it, but that little nobody was taken care of. Everything was taken care of. The bulk of the treasure was distilled down to nicely portable jewels and letters of credit.

And now it was time to go.

* * *

Mercer's horse set a comfortable pace along the road heading south and west out of Riften. His only solid regret was he'd never managed to really stick it to Maven Black-Briar for all the crap he'd had to take from her over the years. Oh, well. These things had a way of working themselves out. Maybe she'd maneuver herself into becoming Skyrim's High Queen. He wouldn't be surprised. Then it would be worth his time to stick it to her good. For now, his plan was to cross into Cyrodiil and then—well, then he would see. There would be opportunities. There always were, for a man with his talents. And maybe one day he'd come back. Not just to plunder Maven, either. All Gallus's maps and the data he'd collected for the showy, legendary heists he so loved—all his grandiose plans were carefully wrapped in oilskin in Mercer's pack. One day, he'd come back. One day the dragons would be gone and the asinine civil war would be over. One day the Thieves Guild would finish its long crumble into obscurity. Then he'd return. After all, the Eyes of the Falmer still waited for him.

He realized he'd almost nodded off in the saddle when his horse gave a little jerk. She had heard or scented something. You fool, he told himself. Wolves had been known to attack lone travelers even during daylight hours.

But it was no wolf that stepped into the road before him. It was a man. A lone swordsman, and surely he knew that face.

"Sabjorn?" He was the owner of Honningbrew Meadery. Maven had sent Mercer to negotiate with Sabjorn once but the man had insolently brushed him off. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"Glad to hear it." Sabjorn had a bizarre little smile on his bland, shopkeeper's face. This meeting could be no coincidence, Mercer realized. But how could that be? How could Sabjorn have known he would leave Riften today when Mercer's decision was only hours old?

"What do you want?"

"For a start," Sabjorn said. "Why don't you get down off that horse so we can talk like civilized people?"

Now Mercer had been ready to ride on, trampling over Sabjorn if need be, but something about the challenging way the pompous little brewer looked at him rankled. Mercer was one of the finest swordsmen in the Rift. This stupid fat Nord thought to stand in his way? He dismounted and made sure his sword was ready at hand. He let the reins drop—his horse was well trained—and he strode towards Sabjorn.

"If you have something to say to me, better make it quick," Mercer said.

"You're a busy man," Sabjorn said. "Places to go. People to betray. I understand."

Mercer drew his sword. "There is nothing to keep me from cutting you down where you stand."

"Well, there's this," another voice drawled. "Not quite nothing." An elven archer stepped out from behind a group of trees. He had an arrow nocked and ready. Mercer stared.

"Aringoth?" Mercer said. The owner of the bee farm? "I thought you'd sold out and left Riften."

"I sold out," he said. "But I haven't left. Not yet. I'm doing a little favor for the new owner."

"And who is that?" Mercer asked. He'd been wildly curious about who in Skyrim would have the guts to throw down the gauntlet to Maven Black-Briar in her own city.

"An old friend of yours," Aringoth said.

"Who?"

The arrow hit him in the back before he was aware there was a third opponent. Mercer fell to his knees and then toppled over. Aringoth released his arrow.

"Thank the Eight," he said. He shook his hands out. "I couldn't have held my bow steady much longer. I'm getting too old for this nonsense."

Sabjorn laughed. "As am I! I almost wet my loincloth. For a moment there I thought he was going to kick up his horse and run me over. Then we'd have been in a pickle. Is he dead?"

"Mercer Frey is not dead," the third person said. She left the shadows on the other side of the road. "Merely paralyzed."

"You sure about this, Karliah?" Aringoth said. "I thought we were going to kill him. Surely that would be easier than hauling him back to Riften."

"With the evidence in these saddle bags, we don't have to kill him," she said. The Dunmer bent over his prone body and slid her hands inside his tunic. "Although I suspect he's not going to be in this world much longer. One now calls for his blood as will more, when his deeds are known." Almost to herself, she muttered, "I do not envy him his existence in the next world." Then louder, "With Mercer out of the way, we can all get back to business. Profitable business. Now where is it? He always has secret pockets," she said. "He was my old partner, you know. And while I would never say he was predictable, he—ah. Here."

"A key?" Sabjorn asked. "We did all this for a key? You spent a fortune in gold to get a key? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. My business has really taken off, thanks to you."

"This is no ordinary key," she said. For a moment, her normal watchfulness relaxed. Her normal sorrow lifted. She smiled. Neither of them had ever seen her smile. "Gentlemen," she said. "I do believe our luck is about to change for the better."


End file.
